


Scrabble Master

by TheHumming6irdWrites (JustAnotherCumberfictionFangirl)



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, Young British Artists | Britart RPF
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Competitive Tom Hiddleston, Confusion, Drunk!Hiddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Outbursts, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, First Dates, Flashbacks, Friendship, Fun and Games, Inferred explicit behaviour, Jealousy, Male-Female Friendship, Overthinking situations, Repressed Memories, Revelations, Rule books, Rules, Scrabble, Strict Tom, Teasing, The most ridiculous game of Scrabble you will ever have to endure, This was supposed to have been a one-shot but things got out of hand, Thomas William Hiddleston has a brain like a sewer, Tipsy!Alice, Tipsy!Tom - Freeform, Ultimatums, Unreliable Narrator, declarations, explicit content, games night, mention of mild BDSM, silliness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-06-14 12:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15388617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherCumberfictionFangirl/pseuds/TheHumming6irdWrites
Summary: Inspired byTHISnonsense. Originally meant to be a one shot, but words, as always, got the better of me...A/N: This is a work of fiction. While there will be some scenes which are based on reported events, poetic license has and will be used in bucket loads. All other character's are fictitious, with the exception of Tom Hiddleston, but ALL characters are completely my own interpretation and not intended to offend.





	1. "How about Scrabble?"

 

  


 

**Chapter One**

“So, what do you fancy doing tonight?” 

“We could watch a film. I have the new-”

“How about Scrabble?” Tom interrupts. 

“Oh forget it Hiddleston! You know how competitive you get. We are  _not_  playing Scrabble.”

“Pictionary?” he smiles hopefully.

“You know I can't draw! Remember that last time? You thought my elephant was a cock and balls!”

“Ehehehe, the likeness really  _was_  uncanny to be fair, but okay. How about Monopoly then?” The tiniest flicker of something dark flashes through Tom’s eyes and he sighs “Wait. No. Monopoly makes me angry.”

“Only because you take it too seriously!”

“Rules are there for a reason Alice, you know that.” Tom admonishes. He stares at me for a moment in silence before his intense gaze finally breaks and a huge, almost childlike grin stretches across his face “How about Twister then?”

“I think Kate would have a few things to say about you and I playing Twister together...” I mutter, desperately trying to keep any hint of jealousy out of my voice.

“Well, for one thing, Kate no longer gets to have an opinion on  _anything_  I do, and for another, why would she have cared whether I played a game of Twister with my best friend anyway?”

“Woah. Wait… Back up! What? You two split up? When? _Why?!”_

Despite my barrage of questions, I actually commend myself on my excellent ability to deflect the conversation away from my filthy assumption that all games of Twister with someone you fancy inevitably result in shenanigans of a carnal nature.  

“Yep.” Tom’s curt response, accompanied by that fascinating pop of his lips, tells me enough not to dig for any more information  _just_  yet. I, of course, need  _all_  of the juicy details. However, Tom is notoriously cagey about breakups, and always - _sometimes infuriatingly so_ \- complimentary about his exes. Even when they turn out to be the spawn of Satan.

But I can be patient when I want to be. Dear God, I've made a career out of it. I'll just ply the man with alcohol and get it out of him later. After all, I’ve done it before.

And that’s perfectly fine with me as I  _need_  alcohol to get through a night with Tom these days anyway. 

I should probably explain at this point, right?

My absolute bestest of best friends is not unpleasant company. I mean, come on! We’re talking about Tom Hiddleston here for goodness sake. You’ve seen the YouTube videos. The man is a veritable ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. But you see, that’s part of the problem…

He is just far too  _good_  company.

A night with Tom is usually filled with conversations ranging from philosophy to Disney movies, raucous laughter,  _always_  some form of music - whether that be him singing while he noodles on his guitar, or the pair of us – _myself distinctly out of tune I might add, whilst Tom is, of course, pitch perfect_ \- singing along to whatever we have playing on the iPod - and, more often than not, it ends with dancing. And that's why nights with Tom make spending time with the average Joe incredibly boring in comparison. 

The fact that I also harbour the most pathetically unrequited crush _EVER_ on the man doesn’t help. It can be almost crippling at times and has only grown stronger with each passing year. But it is a crush that is in absolutely no way reciprocated. After all, I guard it so fiercely that the poor unsuspecting fool has no idea. Of that I am certain.

Which is perfectly, absolutely, one hundred per cent fine with me. Because I simply don’t fit into his world. Not his  _real_  world anyway. Behind my front door, maybe.

I should probably point out here, I’m not an ogre or anything. I’m actually okay with the way I look. I like my eyes and I like my boobs. I could probably do with losing a bit of weight around my hips, but quite honestly? I love carbs far too much, and that is one crush that I know for a fact is one hundred per cent reciprocated. I have the arse to prove it! In fact, the only thing I probably would change, given half a chance, is my height. To say I’m vertically challenged would be putting it mildly. I barely reach Tom’s nipples - _stop it!_ But all joking aside, that’s one of the reasons why I don’t even bother deluding myself that anything would ever happen between Tom and me. His taste in women errs towards the statuesque end of the height scale. Statuesque and glamorous, of which I am decidedly neither.

But we really are the best of friends. We can, after all, go from deep conversations to making one another cackle with laughter over the silliest of things. It’s an easy friendship in that regard, built on many years of mutual trust and respect, our paths first crossing in our late teens at university. 

Nothing has ever happened between us. We almost instantly placed each other in the 'friends only' box, content to enjoy one another's company as just that. And that’s fine with me. Honestly. I would much rather have had Tom in my life for close to twenty years as a friend than be one of his exes who he speaks fondly of but rarely sees.

Still. Knowing he is single again at least eases the tugging pain in my gut that twists like a dagger whenever I see him with a woman. 

Listen, I know I'm a bad person for entertaining the momentary euphoria that inevitably follows the knowledge that Tom has split up from someone he seemed to care about. I hate to see Tom unhappy, hurt or in _any_ kind of pain. So I will, naturally, console him when he is good and ready to talk about it. Like _any_ true friend would. But for the briefest of seconds I allow myself to dream. Please don't judge me too harshly for that.

“Anyway. If not Twister then we're back to Scrabble I'm afraid darling. That is, unless you fancy playing strip poker?”

 _Shit. He's looking at me with that smirk that does bad things to me. Really bad things... I completely missed most of what he was saying. Something about poker was it?_  

“Oh hell no!” I flounder, remembering the last time we'd played poker. Tom had, of course, been a maestro at bluffing whilst I had resorted to cheating. Not my finest hour, I admit. But desperate times and all that. Mr Rule Book had insisted on a forfeit, and stupid me had been persuaded to crack open the questionable bottle of tequila from the back of my cupboard. I'd spent the night hugging the porcelain throne after that. 

So no.  _Never_  again!

“Fine. Seeing as you’re clearly in a gaming mood, Scrabble it is, I guess…” I mumble, rising reluctantly from the comfort of the sofa to go in search of the board game in my hall cupboard. 

It's not that I'm even  _that_  bad at Scrabble. I'm far from illiterate and actually have an excellent grasp of language. I'm a curator at the British Library for goodness sake!  It's just that Tom...

“I think I might have put it up on top.”

Tom's sonorous voice right behind my ear startles me and I jump, slamming right back into his solid chest.

“Shit Hiddleston!” I rally, trying not to let his close proximity rattle me. Not an easy feat, I can tell you, especially when you can actually  _feel_  the heat from his body permeating your own skin, and the warm puff of his breath against your exposed neck as he exhales. 

Still, I try. 

“Warn a girl before you sneak up on her!” I grouch, impressed that my voice doesn’t come out in a breathy whimper. 

“Sorry love. I just remember tidying it away last time. I can't imagine you've played it since then anyway.”

He steps back then, allowing me just enough room to manoeuvre myself around him and praying he doesn't catch the flush in my cheeks. 

“That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think?” I counter, feeling strangely defensive after my last - frankly pitiful - performance. “I might have been practising!”

“Have you?” Tom quirks an eyebrow “Are you going to attempt to hustle me, Shortcake?”

Ugh. Low blow Hiddleston!He’s using _that_ voice.The one that’s dropped a thousand pairs of knickers. 

“Tom. Stop being so daft. I do have other friends you know.” I try my best to deflect as his eyes bore into me, that bloody hyperactive eyebrow of his practically reaching his hairline at this apparently new revelation. But before he can interrogate me further I gripe.

“And stop calling me Shortcake! You know how much I hate it! You don't have to bring Shakespeare into every bloody conversation Tom, we all get it. _You lurve him!_ ”

His eyes seem to darken momentarily, and I can see his jaw ticking as if he's considering ruining me with his verbal counterattack, but I stand my ground, crossing my bare arms defiantly across my chest.

The tension simmers between the two of us. 

Of course, it's not Tom's fault my parents insisted on naming me after a literary character. As professors in literature, it was pretty much inevitable. But why did my dad, the venerated children's literature specialist have to get the final say? My mother had apparently petitioned for the far more exotic Astraea, but that had been vetoed, my father insisting I would be teased.

_Erm, newsflash dad! Apparently no name is immune to playground bullies._

For the record I  _hate_  my name. And I hate even more that the first time I met Thomas William Hiddleston he immediately associated it, not with its Wonderland origins, but with a character in a frankly sub-par Shakespearean play. The fact that he now uses said character as both my nickname and a good-humoured - at least in  _his_  head - tease about our marked height difference is infuriating beyond belief.

That said, a tiny, yet perverse part of my brain reluctantly  _relishes_  the fact that he has a pet name just for me. _Not that I'd ever tell him that of course!_

I breathe a sigh of relief though as,  _finally,_  he turns silently back to the cupboard. My relief is, however, sadly fleeting, as I watch in rapt fascination as the tallest man I know stretches up to retrieve the board game from the highest shelf, in doing so both confirming the falsity of my claim to have used it recently, and revealing a strip of smooth, pale freckled skin and the dark waistband of his underwear peeking out from beneath his well-loved (certainly by me) jeans.

The whimper I had successfully stifled only minutes earlier rears its ugly head at the sight, and this time I am powerless to stop it from escaping my lips.

Tom twists towards me, arm still aloft and board game secured, his gaze falling to mine once more, an inscrutable look flashing through his eyes before turning to one of concern as I quickly fake a deflective coughing fit.

Who said Tom was the only actor in the room? I am a master of disguise, a maestro of misdirection. A doyenne of- 

_Fuck! I am choking on my own saliva!_

“You okay down there Shortcake?”

 _There it was again._  

I rasp for breath as I try to protest, the drool that had accumulated in my mouth at the mere sight of two inches of bare midriff finally dissipating enough that I can just about nod.

Tom is there in seconds though, slapping my back, his big warm hands rubbing in concentric circles.

My wheezes finally subside, and I have to tamp down a purr. Dear God, the man knows how to use those hands of his. I break away first, I  _need_  to before I make even more of a fool out of myself and reward his kindness with awkwardness. We've had quite enough of that for one evening!

“Right!” I clap my hands together rather too enthusiastically “You set the board up, and I'll get us some drinks and snacks.”

Tom holds my gaze for a moment longer than is comfortable before finally nodding in agreement.

“Um... sounds good”

He follows close behind me but turns into the lounge at the last moment, allowing me to head into the kitchen, partly to gather the promised refreshments, but also to sort my bloody head out. 

I lean against the sleek worktop, my sweaty palms flat on the cool granite as I try to take deep breaths. 

What is wrong with me tonight? I've known Tom for close to twenty years and even though I've harboured my crush for almost as long, I've always managed to keep my emotions in check. Even when he's paraded his latest fling in front of me.

_I need to get a grip!_

I mutter to myself about what I'd  _really_  like to get a grip of right now, licking my lips at the memory of that enticing flash of skin. Not to mention the rounded rump of his delicious arse just below it.

I can feel myself getting hot again. 

_Dear God! I need to calm the fuck down!_

I move to the sink, running my wrists under the cold water tap until I feel the chill course throughout my veins, then quickly assemble bowls of crisps and a cheeseboard, piling some grapes atop in the hope of projecting a faint whisper of health consciousness. Then I grab a couple of beers from the fridge and balance everything precariously on a tray.

“I thought you'd got lo-” Tom looks up from his prone position alongside the Scrabble board and pauses mid-sentence.

I wonder if I'm still blushing as he's momentarily silent but then he unfolds himself from the floor, where he's created an inviting spot filled with cushions and the fleecy throw I usually keep on my sofa.

“You should have shouted me.” He reprimands, grabbing the overflowing tray from my hands and setting it down on the coffee table. 

“Tom, I'm not some helpless little girl!” I prickle “Just because I'm small, doesn't mean I'm incapable!”

“Darling I know that.” His voice is soothing as he takes off his glasses and somehow manages to extract a cleaning cloth from the pocket of his painted-on jeans. I watch, hypnotised as he proceeds to clean them, his voice warm, yet measured as he continues “But there’s also nothing wrong with asking for help from time to time either. It doesn’t make you less of a woman. Not in my eyes anyway…”

I don’t quite know what to say to that, so I say absolutely nothing. Reluctantly tearing my eyes away from his hands, which are _still_ caressing his glasses, I slump myself down onto the blanket and try - _yet again_ \- to get myself into some semblance of calm.

Tom cracks open the beers and hands me one, his other hand already delving into the bowl of crisps. While he’s stuffing his face I take a long sip of my beer and count to ten.

 _You’ve got this Alice,_ I tell myself. _It’s just another evening with your best friend. That’s all. Chin up girl!_

“Okay. Who gets to go first?” I break the silence, unconsciously praying Tom's manners let him down in favour of his competitive streak. I hate going first. It tends to set the tone for the game, with me placing a four-letter unimaginative offering, only for Tom to somehow inexplicably create a high value double letter/triple score combo from my pathetic drivel of an attempt.

_Please let his manners let him down. Just this once…_

Tom's voice sounds frankly censorious when he looks up from where he was already eyeing up the cheeseboard.

“Do I need to remind you of the rules  _again,_  Shortcake?”

I attempt an impudent smirk as I glance up from the board into his impossibly blue eyes, but with his head tilted slightly, his intense gaze is serious. Reluctantly tearing my eyes away, I watch wordlessly as he reaches across to the well-worn booklet. 

“To determine who goes first, each player takes a tile-”

“Tom, I know the rules!” I interrupt, and his eyes darken further “I was just messing about. Here…” I thrust the bag of tiles towards him, waiting for him to pick one.

“Tsk… ladies first…” the infuriating man nods to me “Shortcake…”

He winks.

I grit my teeth.

_I will not kill Tom Hiddleston. I will not kill Tom Hiddleston._

 

 

**~ To be continued ~**


	2. “Rules…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice and Tom finally start their game... 
> 
> But who is playing who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a hot mess but i'm honestly sick of looking at it! 
> 
> I'm so sorry - and even MORE sorry for the wait! (The third chapter is almost finished though, if that's any small consolation) <3

 

“T O A S T. Toast.” I place the first tiles down on the Scrabble board.

“Mmm… best start to the day!” Tom winks at me as I tot up my score.

“Personally, I’d take a decent shag over a slice of toast _any_ day of the week!” I grumble to myself, not even realising I’ve said it aloud, as I instead mentally try to remember just how long it’s actually been since I’ve had anything approaching a _decent_ morning dalliance… seven… eight years? Maybe even longer than that! Certainly the sex I most recently had with Simon was never worth bragging about. And even before him I’m struggling to remember a time the sheets were on fire. Ugh. Whatever, it’s definitely been _way_ too long.

With a sigh, I write my word total - a lousy 6 - on the score sheet. My initial excitement at having managed to actually string together a five-letter word in the opening round has, of course, immediately evaporated at the paltry score.

Clearly I am going to get annihilated. Chewing the end of the pencil, I look up. Tom is staring at me, so I pull a face and shrug my shoulders defensively “What? I’d like to see _you_ do any better with what I’ve got!”

He coughs and then, seemingly coming back from whatever the hell he was daydreaming about, collects himself enough to mutter “I didn’t say a single word darling!” before adding the letters E R S to the end of my word without even a second of hesitance. He smirks then, as I take a long slug of beer before groaning when I realise he’s managed to fall on a triple word score, taking my crappy score of 6 and turning it effortlessly into 24 points.

“- E R S… Toasters.” He smiles easily at me.

_Have I mentioned recently that I want to punch him?_

“But… but… that's not even a word in its own right!” I exclaim “You can't use that 'S' at the end. That's… that’s just… _cheating!”_ At this point I should probably point out that I am acutely aware of just how irrational I am already sounding – I’m _certain_ plurals are, in fact, allowed – and yet I can’t seem to stop myself.

“I think...  _Shortcake_ , that you'll find rule number 1 of the Original Scrabble Rules of Play _clearly_  states that new words can be formed by, _and I quote:_ ‘Adding one or more tiles to the beginning or end of a word already on the board, or to both the beginning and end of that word’, _and_ … given that they even go on to offer the example of TRAINER being extended into S T R A I N E R - _S_ …” Tom enunciates the final ‘S’ with a smug, toothy grin as he adjusts his glasses “I’m afraid your argument, in this instance, is null and void”.

Tom being able to recite the rulebook as if from rote _shouldn’t_ surprise me, but I find it all the more infuriating, especially given how cocky he’s being, and how his eyes are twinkling with barely supressed mirth. Not wanting to give in so easily, even though I _know_ I’m clutching at straws, I snatch the rule book from the lid of the box and scour the page. There, sure enough, the rules clearly echo his words. Ver- _fucking-_ batim!

“Well that... that's just… _stupid!”_ I splutter, digging the hole even deeper for myself. “Who even _has_ more than one toaster?” 

_Oh dear God! Shut up woman! Shut. Up!_

“A café? Craft services on a film set... A family with several children-”

“Okay! I get it, I get it!” I snap, interrupting him as he begins to check off a list of multi-appliance venues on those gloriously long fingers of his.  _What the hell is up with me? I just seem to lose my head around this man when things get competitive_.

Meanwhile Tom just sits there, with an easy smile on his goddamn perfect face as he picks up a cracker and begins to smear it liberally with cheese. And yes, because I’m a mature fucking adult, I stick my tongue out and continue to grumble under my breath to myself.

_Ugh. I already want to slap his smug face!_

Instead I stuff my hand in the bag and select my next tiles, trying to ignore the indecent groan he makes as he savours the baked brie.

“Great!” I mutter petulantly, as my brain desperately tries to think of a way to usurp my illustrious competition _just this once_ , with yet another shitty hand. Maybe if I somehow manage to get him drunk we'd at least be on a more even footing? It’s a risky strategy for sure. I could end up legless myself, which - _in my current state of increased infatuation_ \- might prove dangerous. Not to mention the ensuing humiliation I’d suffer if I managed to lose by an even greater score than last time. Tom would _never_ let me forget it!

But still, I figure, desperate times call for desperate measures. And so, my desperately stupid mouth opens and before I can stop myself, I’m actually suggesting we have a drinking forfeit for the person with the lowest scoring word in each round. 

_Clearly I am no longer of sound mind._

Tom takes a slug of his beer, his eyes never leaving mine as he drains the bottle. For a moment I wonder if he hasn’t heard me and am about to heave a massive sigh of relief. But then he opens his mouth and I know, once and for all, that I am royally fucked.

“Okay, but have you got anything stronger? If we’re doing this, we might as well do it properly.”

“Erm...” I force myself to look away, the way his throat undulates as he swallows his beer is making me feel all hot and bothered again. I cough, before realising he actually asked me a question. What was it again? _Shit! I have got to stop this nonsense!_

“Alice?” Tom waves his empty beer bottle. Oh right. Mr Hollow-Legs will be needing more alcohol. 

I'm still so flustered that I stupidly remind him that I have a couple of bottles from the stash of complimentary Jameson whiskey he’s accumulated over the years. That man has way too many bottles bestowed upon him at events, and I, as his best mate, get my fair share of the excess gifted to me. Not that I’m complaining of course. I’ve never had the most ladylike of drinking tastes. Whiskey is my favoured tipple - neat but sipped nice and slowly. After all, it doesn’t take a great deal to have me dancing on the table.

Tom knows this all too well, and his face lights up at the suggestion. Before I back out and make myself look even more of a fool in front of him, I head into the kitchen, warning him as I go not to even _dare_ look at my tiles.

Still, I am undeniably glad of another moment to compose myself.

 _‘Okay girl… you are going to have to be on your A-game now, do you understand me?’_ I whisper to my reflection in the kitchen window, _‘You are going to take Mr Smart-Arse Hiddleston down, once and for all. You are a smart, intelligent and independent woman, remember? You’ve got this! Remember, you’ve seen this man vomiting in the street dressed as Old Father Time!’_

I do a little boxing shimmy, ignoring how ridiculous I must look, and retrieve the bottle of whiskey along with a couple of shot glasses - no way am I getting anything bigger! Noticing an unopened bag of Raspberry Ruffles on the worktop I grab those too. If I’m drinking, I’m going to need to keep my sugar levels up.

As I return to the lounge I find Tom hovering near the doorway, perusing my bookcase as he polishes off yet another cheese laden cracker. _Dear God, his arse is delicious!_

Unfortunately, the biggest problem with finding yourself staring at the object of your desire's toned bum comes when he turns while you are still trance-like, only for you to then find yourself staring at his equally _intriguing_ package.

Thankfully Tom doesn’t appear to notice. Instead he grabs the shot glasses and bottle from my hands and tuts. My heart starts to race again, wondering if he heard my little pep talk in the kitchen.

But as we settle back down onto the blanketed floor, he says nothing, merely unscrewing the cap from the whiskey bottle and pouring two fingers of whiskey into each shot glass.

“Rules…” he looks me straight in the eye as he traces a line along his lower lip in momentary contemplation, “the forfeits will commence from this round. I’ll give you a by on the first round Shortcake.” He winks at me almost indulgently, and I find myself clenching my fist underneath the soft cotton of my gypsy skirt.

_I really have got to chill!_

“Deal?” he holds out his hand and I eye it speculatively.

“Deal.” I force myself to unclench my fist - surreptitiously wiping away the clamminess on my skirt - and take his hand. I try not to focus on the size difference, how warm his skin feels, or how his fingertips reach _way_ past my wrist and cause the hairs on my arm to stand up.

I have a game to play. And one way or another I _am_ going to beat him. I cut the handshake short and instead refocus on my tiles, hoping the break will have inspired me.

With a sigh I realise I am back to a shitty four-letter word. I place my offering down, relieved to see that I at least get a triple letter score to sweeten the blow to my already faltering ego.

“H O R N. Horn… That’s 15 points” I state with as much dignity as I can muster. Secretly I'm just praying that the beautiful but infuriating man sat opposite me has picked a handful of vowels.

Tom nods, seemingly in approval but says nothing. He re-arranges himself on the floor, stretching his long body out so that he’s almost prone, and strokes his bearded chin as he contemplates his tiles for what seems like an eternity. I start to fidget. Just as I'm about to threaten him with an egg-timer - _it’s not like he hasn’t done the same to me in the past, just before you judge me!_ \- he glances up at me, quirks his brow momentarily, and then places a single, solitary tile down on the board.

_No..._

He did NOT just go there! I can't even... Thomas _why?!_

“H O R N - Y. Horny” he licks his lips as he looks up at me through his lashes and I quickly look away, reluctantly adding up his score. The bastard has also managed to land his ‘Y’ on a triple letter space, effectively cancelling out my own extra points.

With a huff I write 16 in Tom’s column and grab my shot glass, downing the contents without hesitation. The alcohol burns the back of my throat and I wince. For better or worse, I grab my beer and swallow another mouthful to rinse the burning sensation away.

“You’d better eat something Shortcake” Tom chides, and I roll my eyes muttering “Yes Dad!” But I grab a handful of crisps and start nibbling at one as I reach for my next tiles, still refusing to look at him.

Surprisingly I manage to win the next two rounds. My ‘Fore’ and ‘Wobble’ beating Tom’s ‘Wet and - surprisingly impressive scoring - ‘Jugs’; both thanks to some perfectly placed bonus squares.

I’m sat, smugly writing down my score of 39 for wobble and happen to glance up just as Tom downs his forfeit. Unlike me, he barely even flinches, and I can’t help but to sigh. There is no way I am going to get this giraffe of a man drunk, even if he loses every single round from here on in.

_What was I thinking?_

He catches my eye and winks at me, a smug smile tugging at his lips despite his recent losing streak. It disconcerts me. If there is one thing I know with absolute certainty about the man spread out alongside me, it is that he _hates_ losing. What is his game?

I shake my head, deciding to ignore him. Instead I pick up the bag and pull out new tiles, arranging them on my stand. I stare at the letters for what seems like forever, acutely aware that Tom is now watching me closely. There is a glaringly obvious word forming in my brain that I could _easily_ put down, and what is more, It would be the first time _ever_ that I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to play all of my letters in a single round against Tom. If only it wasn’t _this_ particular word. I glance up at him and bite my lip. He’s still watching me, his face relaxed and looking rather more patient than my own was earlier, as he awaits my next offering.

I take another long look at the board in front of me. Surely there must be another option. And that’s when I start to notice a worrisome pattern beginning to form.

With the exception of ‘toasters’, every single word that Tom has played has had some potentially filthy alternative meaning. Horny? Wet? _Jugs?!_ Am I reading too much into this? Tom would, of course, argue that it was just my perverted mind. But there is no-one I know with a filthier mind than the man currently licking away a smear of cheese from his biteable bottom lip.  

And so - figuring I may as well play him at his own game - I take a deep breath and go for broke.

“Fellatio” I all but whisper, already feeling my cheeks burn.

“Aha, _excellent_ play Shortcake!” the infuriating man doesn’t even falter, instead smirking as he whispers conspiratorially “and might I add, a particular favourite of mine.”

He winks at me then as he takes a slow sip of another beer, and I splutter, coughing up the mouthful of my own that I'd just sipped.

“Erm what?!”

“F E L L A T I O” he sounds out the letters deliberately slowly “It's an excellent Scrabble word, on account of the _length_ , you know? He quirks his eyebrow mischievously “Why? What did  _you_  think I meant?”

“Nothing...” I mumble, trying to will away the feverish heat I can literally _feel_ tracking down from my cheeks, over my neck, across my breathless chest and continuing much, _much_ further south.

At this moment in time a shot of whiskey might actually calm me down!

I chew on another crisp, trying to stop my brain from being distracted by the flirt of a man next to me. He’s just teasing me, I know it. When it comes to playing games - whilst never actually cheating - Tom always makes use of every skill available to him. And, as I’m sure you are aware, there are plenty in his arsenal.

Which is why I _should_ have predicted the calibre of the word he chose to place down next.

“Knob. K N O B.” he sighs dramatically, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. But that smirk is still firmly place, telling me immediately that he thinks this nonsense is highly amusing. For an educated man, he can be such a big kid!

I decide to take the moral high ground and pretend that I don’t see what he’s so obviously doing. Clearly he’s trying to unsettle me. He knows how awkward I get around this sort of talk, and he’s obviously decided that this is going to be his tactic tonight.

 _Well… Two can play that game Hiddleston,_ I tell myself and plaster on a smile.

“Great effort!” I effuse, adding up his score with fake enthusiasm. We both know I’ve won the round again, especially given the bonus I get for using all of my tiles, and before I even announce it, Tom is downing another shot with relish before refilling his glass. He’s so eager that it’s almost as if he’s _trying_ to get drunk.

“So that round is 86 to me and 10 to you I’m afraid Tom.”

“You’re thrashing me tonight, Shortcake…” he mock pouts and I elbow him.

“Enough with the ‘Shortcake’ nonsense Tom!” I plead “ _Please_ …”  He sighs but nods wordlessly.

Another three rounds pass by quickly, in which Tom enthusiastically chugs down two more loser shots to my solitary one.

I sit back, again debating whether I should place the next letters down on what has now become a distinctly X-rated Scrabble board.

Despite my best attempts to keep things PG ever since my momentary lapse, offering the lacklustre ‘Job’, ‘Odd’ and ‘Dart’; the same cannot be said for Mr Innuendo next to me.

Thomas William Hiddleston - the finest orator of Shakespearean prose I have ever met; reader of Tolstoy, Homer and Sophocles; and impassioned purveyor of the arts - has now added ‘Oral’, ‘Wank’ and the surprisingly tame ‘Aid’ to the board.

“C'mon!” Tom pokes my arm, sending a shock of electricity through my synapses and resulting in a full body shiver that brings me back to the task in hand “Otherwise imma gonna hafda punish yer fer time-wasting!” he slurs in a still convincing Glaswegian accent.

“Yes Sir!” I salute cheekily, chuckling to myself at his sudden inebriated state whilst rejecting the temptation to adds 2 little letters to an already rude enough word on the board. _I will not encourage him!_ I tell myself. Instead, I spell out the crappy 3 letter word ‘Bar’ and finally look up, stealing myself for the inevitable gleeful reaction from Tom.

However, the expression I am _actually_ presented with throws me completely off guard. Instead of the expected smirk, Tom’s lips are a tight, pursed line. His eyes are dark. Intense. Thick eyelashes flutter closed and back open so rapidly that I’m unsure whether I just imagined it. I swallow, momentarily transfixed at the sheer beauty of my best friend. Even his fluffy beard – _which I am beyond desperate to stroke_ – is unable to hide the breathtakingly angular contours of his jawline. But his tense demeanour still perplexes me.

 _Have I done something wrong? Shit! Was there a rule I'd unwittingly broken by placing my letter where I did?_ I am going to _have_ to re-read the rules before our next games night.

I watch, transfixed, as he inhales a slow, almost deliberate breath, before his pink tongue _finally_ breaks through those tense lips, quickly darting out and licking them.

I am frozen, my eyes unable to look away. That in itself is unusual. For as long as I have known this man, his tongue has driven me to distraction. Given the lewd dreams of what he could potentially do with it - dreams that have invaded my perverted mind on many occasions late at night - I have learnt not to focus on it whenever possible. I don’t know why today is any different. But there’s a weird atmosphere lingering, and it is seriously beginning to unnerve me.

So, I do exactly what I do best. I deflect. Narrowing my eyes at him, I burst out into an almost demented, taunting laugh “Oh ha ha, bloody ha!”

Even to my own ears it sounds cringeworthy. It also makes absolutely no sense, whatsoever. I never was very good at improv. But relief washes over me as Tom’s perplexing expression finally breaks and he rewards me with a roguish grin.

“Food. We need more food!” He attempts to clap his hands together, but they narrowly miss one another.

I roll my eyes. “I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five senses!” I grin smugly at him, insanely proud of myself for being able to come up with such an apt Shakespearean quote.

“Well, well, well, _Shortcake_ …touché” Tom emphasises his infuriating pet name for me but bolsters himself, the slurring mysteriously now at a bare minimum. “I'm just a tad tipsy, that's all! In fact I'll have you know that I am far from losing _all_ of my faculties.”

He winks at me then, in what can only be described as a lascivious manner, and I feel my cheeks burning yet again. He has a habit of doing this when he's had a few too many - not that it's ever directed at me. There's often some skinny opportunist ready and willing to succumb to his amorous advances. However gentlemanly he may be when he's sober, you only have to present tipsy Thomas with a pretty girl and he reverts to that gangly yet beautiful teen floozy that I met all those years ago.

But tonight it definitely seems to be directed at me, and quite honestly? I really don't know how to handle it. Is he just being affectionate and I’m reading way too much into it because of my heightened feelings for him? Is he truly drunk and wanting his ego bolstering after his break-up? _I still need all of the juicy details on that revelation_ , I remind myself.

Whatever the situation, he’s never done this before, and I feel certain he’s never noticed just how deep my infatuation for him lies. Don’t judge me on tonight dear reader, I’m usually much more rational around him, I swear.

Tom grabs the bunch of grapes from the cheeseboard and starts feeding himself, direct from the vine, tongue out and oddly reminiscent of a Roman God crossed with an excitable puppy. It occurs to me then that this is much more likely to be another gaming tactic on Tom’s part. Flattery… _Pretending_ to be drunk? But would he really sink so low?

I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least for now. He is my friend after all. He wouldn’t be so underhanded, _would he?_ It also occurs to me that he could well just be stalling for time, given that he still hasn’t added his next word to the board.

I say as much, refusing to look at him, and I hear a deep, throaty chuckle.

“Oh yes… here we go.” I watch as his dexterous digits spell out ‘throb’.

_Oh for fucks sake!_

Deciding once and for all to ignore his nonsense, I tot up his score and am actually happy to take the losing shot. As the whiskey warms my belly I decide from now on that all bets are off. If needs be, I will play him at his own juvenile, little game.

“Well done” I clap enthusiastically, before positioning my new selection of tiles on my stand. Tom is doing the same and completely misses my gleeful glance at the board as I double check my options. I can’t believe my luck! Another six letter word!

With a grin I can barely contain, I place the letters down “M A S T E R… Master” I simper.

There’s a low growl from my gaming companion and I look up. I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense! “Thomas William Hiddleston, what in the Lord’s name is up with you tonight?”

His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are burning into me, almost accusatory. This time I don’t look away. He’s being weird, and I want answers. Showing how serious I am, I shove a Raspberry Ruffle in my mouth and eyeball him as I chew it slowly, my eyebrow quirked.

“Really? How old are you? Ninety? My Granny used to eat those!” he mutters evasively.

“Well I like them! And you didn’t answer my question!” I harrumph indignantly. I petulantly shove another into my mouth, savouring the sickly-sweet taste as I wait for an explanation.

Tom looks at me curiously. What is wrong with us tonight. I’m not normally this uncomfortable around him. And as for Tom? He was being particularly bossy with me earlier, and now this nonsense. I can’t say that I like it.

“Look, I’m sorry Shortc- _Alice_ …” he quickly corrects “I think this heatwave might have got to me a little. I was out at the park most of the morning, Bobby dragged me through a huge patch of stinging nettles, so Emma gave me a couple of antihistamines when I dropped him off at her house. I’m not sure they agree with the whiskey.”

I feel like shit now. I sigh and shake my head “Then you shouldn’t really drink any more Tom. We can play the rest without the forfeit”

“No.” He insists “A deal’s a deal. And I’m a big boy. I just need to get some more food in me.” As if to allay my doubts he shoves a handful of crisps in his mouth and gives me the thumbs up.

Despite my doubts, I know better than to argue. Better for us to just get this game over and done with. “Whenever you’re ready, I believe it’s your turn then Tom.”

“Yes. Of course…” he hesitates for just a second before adding his word to the board “C A N E. Cane.”

Wordlessly I add his score to the paper, reluctantly confirming that he yet again has to pay the forfeit. But Tom doesn’t seem to mind, tossing back another whiskey shot and reaching for more tiles.

For my part I finally have no other option than to expand on one of Tom’s dirtier words, much to his subsequent amusement.

“- I N G. Wanking” I barely whisper.

“Oh Alice!” he teases “You blush so prettily when you have to say such _naughty_ words!”

Tom grins indulgently at me and I know my face is probably growing even redder, but I bite my lip, forcing myself not to get into another quarrel with him. Whether he’s finally feeling sorry for my utter discomfort, or he has simply run out of smutty word options, I don’t know. But his next word, however short, is much more in keeping with the erudite Tom I know (and love).

“M U S E. Muse.”

“Great word.” I encourage, indulgently. Sadly my smutty word once again trumps Tom’s more decorous offering, and he finds himself swallowing yet another shot.

I try my best to keep us on this more respectable footing with ‘cozy’, and Tom seems to be playing along with the equally innocent ‘edge’. But he loses the round, despite not even protesting about my Transatlantic spelling, and causing me to question whether I should put a stop to this, especially now that I am aware of all the facts.

Tom however, seems to be in much better spirits, and when I add ‘vixen’ to the board he purrs _“foxy”_ and chuckles throatily.

Despite the way his low, gravelly voice makes my most intimate parts clench, I find myself giggling along with him. He laughs all the more, to the point where he’s clutching his belly and I’m snorting like an undignified pig. When we finally manage to calm down, we’re both grinning like big kids and I finally relax. This is much more like it. The tension that seemed to have been hanging over us like a cloud just a short while ago has all but evaporated and we’re back to our usual, silly selves.

But then he goes and places the one word that makes me moan whenever he utters it down on the board, and once again I’m back on edge.

“Q U I M. Quim.”

I bite my lip, forcing down the whimper I so desperately want to release. He’s using his Loki voice and that is beyond unfair! I did once confess that I have a bit of a soft spot for his most famous character. Clearly he hasn’t forgotten and has now decided to use it to his advantage. I know my hand is shaking as I write down the score. I also know he’s watching me, probably wondering why I’ve gone silent again. So I take a deep breath. _Be breezy Alice. You can do this_.

“Mewling or not, I’m afraid my foxy vixen is more than a match...” I plaster what I hope is a teasing smile on my lips and wink as I fill his shot glass, offering it to him.

Tom takes it wordlessly, but his eyes linger on mine as he downs the shot, slamming the glass back down with a hiss. He rubs his face and glides his long fingers up through his already tousled curls and, yet again I am forced to look away.

The board is now almost full, the quantity of remaining tiles thankfully growing low, and I heave a sigh of relief. There must surely only be two or three more rounds left.

With a hope and a prayer I select my next letters and groan as I survey the board. I can think of only one possible word. It would be pretty innocuous under normal circumstances, but given the way this evening has unfolded, I cringe as I lay it down on the board.

“S P U R T. Spurt.” I wait for Tom to say something, but whether he’s biting his tongue, or that last shot of Jameson’s has finally hit him, he doesn’t react. Instead he rearranges his own tiles several times on his stand, contemplating his options.

Finally he looks up at me, seeming almost apologetic. As he places the letters down I understand why.

_Okay. How the fuck is he doing this?! It’s becoming like some perverted word association game!_

“P E E N. Peen.” He tilts his head, his eyelids drooping, and I wonder if he’s actually even aware of what he’s doing anymore.

“Peen?! Oh Tom, _really?”_ I can’t help it. I snort with laughter “That’s what uptight people who are too prim to use the word ‘ _cock_ ’ say!”

Tom narrows his eyes at me. Okay, so apparently the alcohol I’ve consumed has lubricated my own tongue more than I thought. And, as I’m about to discover, Tom is definitely still aware of what _he’s_ doing.

“My dear Alice…If you would care to drag your filthy little mind out of the gutter for just a moment, I believe you’ll find that the etymology of ‘peen’…”

I can’t help it, I giggle even more when he repeats that word, only to be rewarded with a disapproving frown _“Shortcake…”_ he warns, and my childish laughter catches in my throat. Despite the use of _that_ name again, there’s something – _dare I say_ – deliciously _dominant_ in the way he’s now addressing me. _And dear God-on-high, help me… I LOVE it!_

I clamp my lips together, desperately trying to tamp down the squirmy feeling rising up throughout my body. This is one of the few secrets I have never shared with Tom, and with good reason. Whenever we - either alone, or among our mutual friends - got onto the subject of relationships, I tended to steer the conversation away from anything remotely sexual. It was partly for my own self-preservation of course. The last thing I needed to know about was how many times Tom’s latest fling was getting some action! Call it jealousy if you like, but I instinctively knew that she’d be much more satisfied in that department than I ever was. But that also meant that I was probably a bit of a prude in his eyes. And he most certainly was not aware of my predilection for submission.

The sound of a disapproving ‘tut’ breaks through my musings and I realise, yet again, that I have been daydreaming. Blushing, I hesitantly look at Tom. He’s sat up now, his arms crossed over his muscular chest, and a strange look on his face.

“Sorry Tom” I blink, lowering my eyes automatically and fidgeting with my fingers as I mumble “you were saying?”

He exhales deeply and there’s a moment of silence before he finally speaks “All I was going to say - _before I was so rudely interrupted_ \- is that _that_ word…” _I wanted to kiss him for not repeating it_ “Is, I believe, of Northern Germanic origin, and simply relates to the rounded head of a hammer! It is not - at least in _my_ mind - something that warrants such a display of schoolgirl giggling.”

Tom’s indignant reprimand should have annoyed me. After all, this was only supposed to be a light-hearted game and he’d already used plenty of filthy words. I’m certain I would have been well within my rights to remind him of that fact, yet the argument sticks in my throat as my body continues to react almost violently to his headmaster-like demeanour.

And I can't seem to stop myself from mumbling “Sorry Sir” in resignation.

I grab my almost abandoned shot glass and down the contents without thinking. _Stuff the game. I need a stiff drink!_

When I finally look up at Tom, his brow is furrowed. “I know…” I mutter, I won that round. But consider that a forfeit for jumping to conclusions.” I reason, quickly jotting down the scores and trying to get the game finished.

We play out the next two rounds in a tense silence. Tom’s ‘View’ beating my ‘Yin’, my ‘piece’ narrowly beating his ‘QI’.

With only 3 letters left between us Tom is the one who decides to calls it quits. Even without totalling our scores, it is clear that I have easily beaten him. 

I should be happy. This happens so rarely that I should quite probably be gleefully dancing around him, teasing him. But given the bizarre atmosphere that has yet again descended over us, I don’t want to push my luck any further.

Instead I start clearing away the empty glasses and bottles and loading up the tray with the decimated remnants of what once was a full cheeseboard. I wonder, not for the first time, where Tom manages to put it all, given the fact that I’ve barely even touched any of the cheese and only eaten a handful of crisps.

“Let me get that” Tom sighs and unfolds himself from his prone position. He looms over me, his sheer height eclipsing the light from the large reading lamp behind him. I can’t see his face properly, he’s that close. Not wanting to get into another tense confrontation I wordlessly offer him the tray.

As he leaves the room, I finally let out a lungful of air I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding onto and practically run to the bathroom, splashing my hot face with cold water and try to sort my head out.

Now the game is over, I am desperate to get things back to our usual happy banter. I don’t think my heart can take any more stress. Giving my cheeks one more pat of cold water, I lift my chin defiantly and head into the kitchen to give Tom a hand.

_This is my home. Tom is my guest and my best friend, and so help me God, we will finish this night in good humour, even if it kills me!_

 

**~To Be Continued~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've managed to endure this nonsense, a lot more will hopefully be explained in the next two chapters and this will then make a bit more sense... Thanks for your patience and for reading <3


	3. “Ah... aah! And we'll have no more of that nonsense.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! So sorry for the wait. Hope you enjoy <3

 

“So anyway... Tell me what happened with you and Kate?”

Tom sighs and completely ignores my question.

After my mini meltdown in the bathroom, I had briefly re-joined him back in the kitchen, catching him splashing his own face under the cold-water tap. The good hostess that I am, I’d immediately apologised about the heatwave - as if somehow _I_ _alone_ was responsible for the effects of global warming - all the while cursing the lack of air conditioning in my ancient flat.

Tom had merely smiled indulgently - which had forced me to remind myself he was likely still pretty tipsy – and proceeded to pour us both large glasses of cold water, which we had wordlessly downed thirstily.

We’d then headed back into the lounge, where Tom had immediately made himself at home once more. He’d switched on the TV and set about flicking through the channels, just as he always did - _and much to my growing annoyance_. In fact he’d only stopped when I’d finally scolded him, begging him to just pick one… “ _for the love of God and all that is holy!”_

See! _This_ is what all those fan fiction stories written about him don’t tell you… Tom can be a right, royal pain in my arse at times - albeit an exceedingly pretty one.

He’d quirked an eyebrow at me at my outburst, of course - as if in warning - and I admit that I had been unable to stop that depraved and hopelessly infatuated part of my brain from wondering just how bossy he would be in the bedroom. I realise this was unseemly of course, but for all of my friend’s lovable, sweet qualities, occasionally he would give off an air of something _much_ darker, and most certainly more assertive. Not that those kinds of thoughts were ever remotely helpful  _or_ appropriate about my best friend. _But try telling that to my addled brain, why don’t you?_

Luckily for me, he didn't seem to notice how I wriggled self-consciously, as he appeared to be much more interested in the television, _finally_ settling on BBC1.

Forty minutes or so later, and we are sprawled out on my small but exceedingly comfortable sofa, watching the highlights of the earlier ladies Wimbledon semi-final. Now, I should probably point out that I enjoy tennis just as much as the next person. But Tom is pretty obsessive about it, and he’s been waxing lyrical about the two players on screen for the past half an hour.

He's also still been evading my attempts to get the lowdown on his break-up with Kate, and frankly? My patience is running out.

“You know, I think she might just do it on Saturday...” Tom muses as Angelique Kerber gives her post-match winners interview “She's got a tremendous forearm and-” 

I can't help myself. I prickle at the way he's fawning over her.

“Maybe you and  _your_  tremendous forearms should get together with her and  _her_  tremendous forearms and have insanely smart, insanely athletic babies then!”

“Pardon?” I feel him shift on the sofa, his knee brushing against mine and I just know he’s staring at me, but I refuse to even acknowledge his scrutinisation.

“Nothing.” I mutter, my cheeks blooming in embarrassment at my outburst. I sound like a petulant child and we both know it.

Thankfully the lights are a little dimmer now that we no longer need to see the Scrabble board, and I’m hoping I can deflect the attention back onto Tom before he puts two and two together and notices the heat positively blazing down from my flushed cheeks and throughout my body. The titles are rolling on the TV, so I switch it off before he can start channel surfing again and flick on the stereo instead, setting the volume to low.

“So, anyway…” I turn back towards him, having successfully tempered any sign of my embarrassment, and attempt for the second time, “Stop trying to keep changing the subject.”

_The irony of that very statement would be laughable to me, if it were anyone other than me saying it, yet I soldier on regardless._

“I asked you about Kate. Come on... You know me Tom. You know I'm good at keeping your secrets. What happened between the two of you? Spill…” I force myself to disguise my jealousy as I continue, “She seemed...  _lovely_.”

“She was. She really  _is.._.” He quickly corrects, and for a moment I feel panic rising up in my chest as we sit in silence. I'm just wondering if I might have inadvertently prodded him in the direction of a late-night booty call for old-time’s sake, when he looks up from his hands - fidgety as always - and sighs deeply.

“The thing is, I realised that I _had_ to break up with her. She wanted more but my heart just wasn't in it. And that wasn't fair on her.”

“Oh.” I murmur, somewhat surprised. Tom doesn't usually offer _quite_ so much, so easily and it catches me off guard. I usually get some glib statement about it being a mutual decision. “Well, I suppose that's what happens when you're always searching for something more...”

It's out before I even realise that I've said it.

Tom glares at me then, his eyes intense and his mouth set into a hard line. I wonder if I've gone too far this time. Me and my big mouth! Maybe I  _am_  trying to drive him away from me.

“Sorry” I whisper. And really I am. I’m the last person with any right to judge someone else on their lack of commitment. Especially not Tom, given the secrets  _I’m_ holding back.

Tom nods in acknowledgement of my apology, and I relax somewhat.

“Anyway, enough about me. What's new with you?” he seamlessly deflects the conversation, “Still seeing that _lecherer?”_

“You mean lecturer?” 

“I know what I mean.” Tom tenses his jaw and I try not to focus on the ticking just beneath the surface. “He gives me the creeps Alice. I don't trust him around you.”

“Hmm. That's exactly what he said about you, funnily enough. Anyway, you don't have to worry about Simon anymore. He dumped me.”

“ _He..._  dumped  _you?!”_  Tom's incredulity is no doubt supposed to make me feel better but to be honest I don't even care.

“It was going nowhere anyway…” I mutter, not wanting to dwell on it.

Another silence descends upon us. It's completely different to our usual, companionable silence. This one feels strange and awkward. I'm terribly aware of it, and my incessant need to please suddenly kicks back in. I jump up and turn up the music. _Loud._ It’s a cheesy 80's compilation that’s been playing, and I couldn't be more relieved to hear the wacky lyrics of [Prefab Sprout](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D4T6e3GJCjow&t=ZWJlZjRlZmM2ZmQ4MzUzNzc5MGQ4MDdhOWM0NWUwZTczNzVkMWNiYiwwVzhZaDZPOA%3D%3D&b=t%3AL_GBSmPgyiKCIp2sPHuJ_A&p=http%3A%2F%2Fthehumming6ird.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179784107880%2Fprefab-sprout&m=0). 

I turn the song up louder still, aware the neighbours could start banging on the walls at any moment, but no longer caring. I don’t like the atmosphere that has been brewing between Tom and me this evening one bit. It’s getting downright uncomfortable and I am just desperate for a return to some semblance of normalcy.

“Come on!” I yell at Tom, who's slouched on the sofa, thighs splayed a million miles apart and staring up at me as if I’ve suddenly sprouted two heads.

I extend my hand without thinking, and after another awkward pause he sighs and removes his glasses, before finally taking hold of my proffered hand. I force myself not to think about how warm and familiar it feels as he envelopes my much smaller fingers with his own. He unfolds himself from his spot on the sofa but simply stands, watching me.

“What's up old man? Too tired to dance?”

I have no idea why I'm goading him, but his continued silence and the intensity in his stare is honestly beginning to freak me out. Tom grabs the remote for the stereo and turns the music down to a much less ear-splitting volume.

“You're literally one month younger than me, Shortcake!” he finally mutters and there’s a slight edge to his voice.

I fucking swear he knows what he's doing  _still_  using that bloody nickname! I narrow my eyes but say nothing, instead choosing to be the bigger person - metaphorically at least.

Finally he breaks eye contact with me and starts to shuffle his feet awkwardly from side to side. I’ve never seen the dancing bear so unwilling to dance.

And yet, as with every single other out of character moment so far this evening, what do I decide to do?

That’s right, I ignore it. Instead I become one with the music, and despite Tom’s initial reluctance, finally he acquiesces, and those long legs begin their signature moves. How could he not? I know him so well. He’s usually the first on and the last off the dancefloor! Dancing is in Thomas William Hiddleston’s DNA.

We proceed to throw shapes to the lively - if still a little cheesy - playlist, doing our best to avoid banging into the furniture. Each song burns through a little more of the alcohol we’d consumed earlier, along with the awkwardness that had been lurking over us.

“Come here” Tom suddenly demands, beckoning me towards him just as ‘Africa’ by Toto begins to play. 

I'm hot and sweaty but I shuffle closer all the same, hands flailing dramatically in the air as I emphatically punctuate each lyric with a power ballad fist clench.

_I'm bloody good at it, If I do say so myself._

Tom has stopped dancing and instead is stood, grinning down at me as I circle him, arms now flailing in the air. He’s clearly just as impressed with my Kate Bush-esque moves. I have - after all - perfected them over many,  _many_  years of drunken moments just like this one. But as I circle back around to face him, he gently captures one of my hands, and places it firmly against his chest. He's radiating a lot of heat too and we stand toe to toe as I crane my neck back to search his face, wondering what on earth he's up to now. 

For the longest moment he says nothing. He merely holds my hand in place. I can feel his chest expand as he breathes, and the soft thud-thud of his heart beneath my palm. It's slower than my own - not difficult considering the almost perpetual state of panic I have been in around him tonight. It's steady. Reassuring even. And I feel myself slowly matching my own breathing to the soothing tempo.

“Dance with me.” He finally murmurs. His eyes have that sleepy, somewhat dreamy quality of someone who's had one too many beers. _Or should that be whiskeys…_

If it wasn't for the reverberation of his deeply sonorous voice through my fingertips I might have questioned whether I'd heard him correctly. But I see only hopefulness in his eyes, and I tamp down the urge to remind him we already  _were_  dancing together. Suddenly it becomes apparent that he's not talking about our usual frenetic dance moves, not least because his other arm gently wraps around my waist and pulls me in close.

My hand now feels awkward and uncomfortable in this position so -  _rather reluctantly, I might add -_  I prise it away from Tom's hard chest, forcing myself not to trail it slowly down over his t-shirt, my fingers itching to feel the outline of those infamous abs beneath them. Instead I mirror his hands by wrapping mine gently around his midriff. 

As I finally allow myself to relax into the almost hugging position, I dare to rest my head against his torso as we start to sway along to the sound of REO Speedwagon’s ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’.

And that's when I feel his hold tighten infinitesimally.

“Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Hmm?” I murmur evasively.

“Do you like me?”

To the casual observer his voice would likely sound its usual warm, personable tone, but I can hear the slightest hesitancy in it, along with what - dare I say - _sounds_ like nerves. And that throws me momentarily.

“Fishing for compliments are we Hiddleston?” I mumble into his chest, rallying as I try to ignore my once again racing heart. 

_Be cool! He can't possibly suspect anything. The man is thirty-seven years old for goodness sake. He’s not going to outright ask you if you LIKE-like him, surely? He's just being weird. Sometimes he gets like this after a break-up. A tad needy. Contemplative. Reflective even. Basically needing his ego stroked. Factor in the alcohol and it's a sure sign that he's just digging for compliments._

“I'm being serious.” He murmurs against my hair, and it's only then I realise his face is practically buried in it.

“Of course I like you, you’re my best friend Tom…” I finally answer him, hoping he doesn’t notice the hint of panic in my voice.

This is beginning to feel decidedly awkward yet again and I try to pull back, torn between needing to see his face to confirm that I _am_ just imagining the awkwardness – _Tom will, of course, be staring down at me with that goofy grin I love so much_ \- with wanting to stay in his arms, imagining that his voice really  _is_  trying to seduce me. I feel his arms tighten once more around my waist and…

_I gasp._

The soft warmth of his lips brushing against my exposed neck sends shockwaves throughout my entire body and stops all semblance of rational thought. 

_What the…?!_

“Tom?! What the fuck are you doing?”

“Alice-” he breathes against my neck and I shiver. But I can already feel the pain beginning to wrap around my heart. He’s obviously still drunk, and he’s just split up with  _whatshername_.

He’s just feeling needy, I remind myself again.  _Don’t get your hopes up woman!_  This isn’t anything more than drunken, affectionate Tom.  _He’s your oldest and best friend. You don’t want to risk losing that now, do you?_

“For someone so intelligent you always seem so bloody oblivious Shortcake...”

I prickle at both the inference _and_  that name again, though I'm loath to tell which one is winding me up the most. I debate pushing him away, but that would mean I’d have to see his face, and for now that seems an even scarier alternative. So, like the cowardly custard I am, my now sweaty hands hang limply onto him as he continues, my eyes staring resolutely down towards our feet.

“All I've ever wanted in a woman is someone who is...” He pauses for the longest time, as if the weight of what he’s about to say is simply too much to bear and I bite my lip, preparing to hear how he wants someone with a personality _‘just like’_ mine, but obviously with a statuesque figure like Kate’s. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a man has said as much to me. But this is Tom, and I know that if _he_ says it, it will hurt much, much more. So when he finally clears his throat and finishes the sentence my fears are all but confirmed, “…just like you.”

A sob catches in my throat and I sigh pathetically. But he hasn’t finished.

“Because quite frankly, nobody else can compare. You keep me on my toes Shortcake. You don't let me get away with  _anything_... And yet you are kind, honest, trustworthy, generous… to a fault at times, not to mention wise and sassy as hell when you want to be. You are, of course, clumsy as fuck, and I'm really sorry to say this, but you are _terrible_ at Scrabble!” 

 _“Hey!”_ That causes me to finally look up accusingly – torn away from staring at our incredibly mismatched-size feet – at the slight to my board game credentials.

He’s grinning down at me, that teasing smirk fixed on his beautiful lips. But he’s _still_ not finished, and before I can continue my protestations – after all, _I beat him tonight_ … Fair and square! _Didn’t I?_ – he’s shushing me, in that way that makes parts of me – _very intimate parts if we’re being completely honest here_ – literally _throb_.

“As I was saying before I was so _rudely_ interrupted…” he shakes his head and tuts. “In _spite_ of your gaming shortcomings...” I attempt to protest again, and he merely winks indulgently at me as he holds a finger up to his lips and halts any further interruptions, _“Please_ , Shortcake. Let me finish because I _need_ to say this. I want _you_. And only you.”

“Tom…” I shake my head resignedly. I can't help a sad sigh from escaping my trembling lips as I reposition my hand on his chest in order to push him back just a little, refusing to acknowledge that welcoming warmth again as I force myself to plough on regardless, “C’mon, please stop this. We both know I'm not your type...”

“You're not listening!” His tone is angry now and I jerk my head back even further in shock. I do, however continue to make my protestations. I have to get this out. For my own sanity. For Tom’s, who will no doubt be embarrassed as fuck in the morning if I let this nonsense go any further. 

“Look. You are a wonderful,  _wonderful_  man, Tom. The best friend anyone could ever wish for. You're the kindest, most warm-hearted and insanely intelligent person I think I’ve ever met in my entire life. And of course it doesn’t hurt that you’re also breathtakingly handsome. _Any_  woman would be lucky to have you as their significant other, myself included. But Tom, let's call a spade a spade here. I've known you close to twenty years and I  _know_  that I'm not your type. Never have been, never will be. Not, even remotely. And please - _before you say anything_ \- don’t think I’m saying any of this for sympathy. I'm actually really happy with myself for the most part. I don’t tend to struggle for a date. I just don't happen to look like any of the women  _you_  date. Which is absolutely fine, okay? I’ve learned to live with it.”

“Shortcake-”

Tom attempts what I assume must be a courteous protest, and I cut him off again, my well-rehearsed internal diatribe in full flow. “And the last thing I know  _you_  would want is to make a drunken mistake with _me_ , because I also know how much you value this friendship. So please, let’s just pretend this-”

“Christ Alice! Did I turn into a bloody dog whistle at some point this evening?!”

That gets my attention and I clamp my mouth shut, instead staring up at him, my eyebrows creased in confusion. 

“Great. So apparently I'm no longer inaudible to the human species at least… Fan-fucking-tastic!” He mutters sarcastically before hastily continuing just in case I try to interrupt him yet again.

_He knows me so well!_

“Well, now that I  _finally_  seem to have your full attention,  _Shortcake_ , I am going to say a few things. Things that I've been _trying_ to say…” he pauses and takes a deep breath “for a very, _very_ long time now-”

I open my mouth to speak again and he holds his hand up to cut me off as he continues “And damn it,  _this_  time you are going to listen to me, do you understand me?”

There's a tense pause as he glares at me. I should be annoyed with him. He’s never spoken to me like this before. It’s both unsettling and – perhaps more confusingly - somewhat  _arousing_ , and I’m struggling to even look at him now. Where is the Tom that I know - and dare I say it? _Love?_

 _“You_  are my type, Alice. The other women were all just my idiotic brain trying to somehow get you out of it. But I simply cannot do it any longer. And I won’t! I refuse to sit idly by, watching you _‘not struggle for a date’_ any longer.” He practically hisses that last part at me almost accusingly and I flinch. He pauses only to temper his voice somewhat before continuing, “Look, I’m tired of keeping up the pretence… I don’t want to even try anymore.”

“Because I want  _you_.”

My mouth falls open like a flailing guppy and I splutter, trying to think of something rational to say, but Tom is still having none of my interruptions. “Shh. Please, just listen…” he urges, his voice becoming softer now, and more recognisable as  _my_  Tom’s.

“ _I,_  Tom… want  _you_... Shortcake-” he waves away my imminent protest with a wag of his finger, “Ah... aah! And we'll have no more of that nonsense. Haven’t you ever noticed that you're the _only_ woman I've ever given a pet name to? You're my gorgeous, sexy as hell, sweet little Shortcake.”  

“I want you. In  _every_  way, and  _all_  of the time that we are together. And honestly? Probably just as much when I'm alone. Actually, a  _lot_ of the time when I’m alone…” he pauses, quirking an eyebrow and biting his lip momentarily, leaving me in little doubt of what he’s insinuating as his eyes flick down to where my hand is still planted firmly on his chest, though now shaking under the weight of his revelations.

“I think about you all of the time. I fucking  _dream_  about you Shortcake! I dream about spending all of my free time with you, instead of just these achingly brief, pre-arranged moments. I dream about the places I want to take you; all of the things I want us to do together. What I want to do  _to_  you...” his voice is growing huskier as he trails off, looking down at me meaningfully.

“But...” I stutter, my brain befuddled by hearing that seductive tone _finally_ directed at little old me.

_There are things I need to know. Things I still don’t understand, so I press on._

“What about-”

Tom instinctively knows what information I’m digging for -  _probably because of the number of times I’ve quizzed him over his break-ups throughout the years_  – and finishes my question for me “…the others? Poor substitutes.”

He frowns then, raking his free hand through his already dishevelled hair as he seemingly recalibrates and rephrases his answer, ever the gentleman. “No. That came out wrong and it’s entirely unfair. They were all, well  _mostly_ … lovely women. And they will make some other man incredibly happy, of that, I am absolutely certain. But they all had one major fault…”

I take a gulp of air and force myself to look into his eyes as I ask, “which is?”

“They just weren't  _you,_ Alice. And I'm sick of pretending any more. It's not fair on them. It's definitely not fair on me.” Tom pauses, and he suddenly looks incredibly sad. Though I still can’t believe what he’s confessing to me, I can’t seem to stop the rising panic in my chest that somehow he’s _already_ talking himself out of whatever the hell this is, and I look away, not wanting him to see the pain on my face when he finally delivers the killer blow. 

But then he ducks closer and whispers, “It's certainly not fair on you. I'm your best friend and I keep lying to your face.” And the anguish in his voice makes me looks back up sharply.

“I want you. I want to hold you in my arms as my lover, not just my friend. I want to hold you tight and never let go. _Oh Christ, I want to kiss you!”_

My eyes widen, and I lick my lips involuntarily.

“I...” he looks momentarily sheepish as he seems to weigh up his next words “Oh fuck it! I want to wake up with you. Every morning. Preferably after making slow, sensuous love to you. After making you come over and over again because of my hands, my tongue... my cock.” He practically groans.

_Woah! That escalated quickly!_

And yet, I am a rapt, writhing audience of one as this man I have long since worshipped and adored describes to me in exquisite detail all of the things he wants to do to me. The fact that he's looking at me as if he wants to devour me is not helping the situation in my knickers.

And when he leans even closer, his long arms making quick work of engulfing me back within his orbit, I am powerless to move.

“I want to kiss you here...” he murmurs, his hot breath dancing over my already parted lips.

“I want to stroke my fingertips over your breasts. Tease your nipples...”

I groan.

“I want to sink my fingers knuckle deep… _here._ ” he grunts throatily as he presses himself closer still, his muscular thigh rubbing against my clothed core, “and make you come until your sweet juices are running down my wrist.” 

“Oh fuck!” I gasp as my pussy clenches involuntarily. 

“Then, and  _only then_ , when you are hot, and wet, and throbbing, and oh so ready for me, will I finally let you have  _this...”_

He envelopes my shaking hand in his much larger one and slides it down between us, my fingertips _finally_ allowed to trace over his rock-hard abs, their heat radiating through the soft cotton of his t-shirt. But he doesn't stop. _Oh no._ Their destination suddenly dawns on me as I register the cool metal of his belt buckle and then the straining denim just below it.

“I want to make love to you until you forget why you ever hated me calling you Shortcake, and instead realise that it's truly a term of endearment… and because I love you.” 

“I- wait. _What?!”_

Suddenly his words feel like an ice bucket has been tipped over my head. _What am I thinking?!_ Tom tells me all the time that he loves me, as do I in response. But it’s not a romantic love. It’s _never_ been that way - _has it?_

I force myself to remember yet again just how much alcohol the man before me has consumed tonight. What if he’s just feeding me a line? I feel guilty even thinking that of Tom, but how can I be sure? Why has it taken him almost twenty fucking years to tell me all of this?!

_Naturally, I choose not to dwell on the fact that I should be asking **myself** exactly the same question._

And so I cough, refusing to look at him as I pull my hand away sharply, “That's just... you're being ridiculous Tom!”

“You want to get that cough checked out Shortcake. Sounds bad...” he mutters, but he sounds angry again now.

“Tom…” I try again, “you’re drunk”

“Oh please!” He laughs. But it isn't the full bellied laugh that I not so secretly worship. There's none of his trademark _‘Ehehehe’s’_ ringing in my ears right now. This is cold. Humourless.

_And it unsettles me._

“Don't insult me Alice. _Please_ … Did you honestly think you could get me drunk on a few shots of whiskey? I thought you, of all people, knew me better than that! I’ve been biding my time all night, waiting for the right moment to talk to you. I thought my provocative word choices while we were playing Scrabble might finally have set the wheels in motion for us to break through this wall between us, but Christ _…_ You can be so damn stubborn sometimes. I kept on bating you, and you barely even reacted! _Jesus Alice!_ When you put ‘Master’ down on that board I almost unmanned myself!” he groans in what can only be described as an animalistic tone and I can’t stop myself, I automatically cross my legs, clenching my thighs together. It’s a movement that Tom clearly notices, and he licks his lips predatorily but continues, his voice definitely taking on a much huskier quality “And then, when you told me you were single too… that we were both _finally_ single at the same time…” he trails off and runs his fingers through his hair before continuing with a renewed passion, “Look. If I’ve got this all wrong, just tell me. I can’t lie, I’ll be devastated but I’ll accept it. I’ll try to move on. But I happen to think I'm one hundred per cent right on this occasion.”

_For once Tom’s maths is spot on, but do I really dare admit as much?_

“And if that _is_ the case, don't you dare pretend otherwise!” he warns, as if reading my mind. “Don't pretend that I’m nothing more than a friend. That we couldn't be _so_ much more than what we've been to each other until now. Don't pretend that we've only ever been _'just friends'_. Because we've not. And you know it Alice. You fucking  _know_  it!”

“No...” I whisper. But my voice quivers and I'm not even sure what, much less _why,_ I'm even denying it anymore.

“Do you know something Alice Evans? You're acting like a scared little girl right now, and I understand that. Because I understand you. Probably better than you understand yourself. You're scared of getting hurt. You're scared of losing our friendship.” Tom’s voice softens as he gently tips my chin up, forcing me to look at him.

It's only then that I see the faintest flicker of something I can’t quite identify in his eyes, quickly replaced by a look of steely determination. “But I hope that you're not scared of me, Shortcake...”

His voice trails off, clearly waiting for a response. After so many years dreaming of this very moment, a moment I never - _even in my wildest dreams_ \- ever thought would _actually_ happen, what do I tell him? That I’m not just scared, _but petrified_ …  Scared of not only losing myself completely to him? But of possibly even losing my mind?

Because I know damn well that if I _do_ finally succumb to that tiniest whisper of the truth of what Tom is offering me, I will be spoilt for any other man.

_Forever…_

But then it happens. His lips... Lips that I've long imagined kissing, are being pressed gently against mine. So soft, and slow and deliberate. Searching. Almost as if asking for permission, yet somehow already sure of their welcome.

It's as if they know me, which of course they do in so many ways. _But not like this._ There is a curiosity, almost as if they are unlocking some hidden secret that only they hold the key to. And I respond to their caress, willingly.

I feel the soft tickle of whiskers against my cheek, _so_ silky - and exactly as I'd imagined they would feel - almost like the fluttering of a butterfly's wing against my skin.

The gentlest of pressure refocuses my attention on Tom’s mouth just as he pulls away. My lips are parted, and I feel the heat from his breath, his mouth still so close to mine. I hear a low whimper, and realise it is my own at the sudden loss of contact. But I needn't worry.

Tom senses my distress and swallows my protests once more, his lips brushing more insistently against mine. Teasing at first, forcing another desperate whimper from my parted lips as I seek more. Much, _much_ more from him.

My mind is whirring, the only clear, coherent thought being that I want... No. I _need_ more of him.

His tongue darts out, as if realising my frustration and mine mirrors it, probing and entwining with it in an intricately teasing dance that only makes me crave even more of him.

My hands, having been hanging uselessly at my sides since I pulled away, start to itch, my fingers _aching_ to touch him again. _And after all this time, all these years holding back, who am I to deny them even one second more?_

So I do just that, wrapping them back around his hips, this time allowing my short nails to dig into the toned flesh of his lower back through his super soft t-shirt.

Tom groans against my lips and I can’t stop a smug smirk from tugging at my own. I do it again and get a similar response. But when my fingers begin to pull at his t-shirt, my desire to feel his hot, bare skin against them becoming almost unbearable, he tugs hard at my lower lip with his teeth, almost in warning, and I immediately forget not only what I was doing, but who - or even _where_ \- I am.

_Dear God, this man is going to be the death of me!_

My hands still, and Tom takes the opportunity to distract me further with his lips, trailing hot, wet kisses down from my mouth, across my jaw-line and down the column of my neck. I’m panting so hard that I feel light-headed by the time he nips at my collar bone, his beard and nose sending sparks of electricity throughout my body whenever they brush against my bare shoulder.

Meanwhile his hands start to snake down my sides, pausing to indulgently squeeze my hips before slipping under the hem of my vest top. He pauses momentarily, pulling away just enough from my neck to look into my eyes questioningly. It’s just long enough for me to vigorously nod my head and then he's tugging the soft cotton up and over it.

We’re both breathing hard now. I look down self-consciously, but it’s not because I'm ashamed of my body. Hey, I have my flaws just like the next person, but if I say so myself, I do at least have a cracking rack! I'm just not sure what the hell I enrobed it in this morning and I’m praying it's not my oldest, greying sports bra!

However, for once it seems someone is watching over me, and I am relieved to not see grey lycra. Instead a simple black cotton bra lovingly cups my double D’s. Now, the undergarment is hardly worthy of a Victoria's Secret model, but it's far from the worst thing in my underwear drawer. I just hope I bothered to at least pair it with the same colour of knickers!

One glance at Tom's eyes, however, tells me that he couldn't give two hoots whether I'm wearing Bridget Jones’ size underwear, or nothing at all. His hands are comically paused on his already half unzipped jeans – _when did that happen?_ \- and his jaw is practically on the floor.

I'm not going to lie. It is a considerable ego boost.

And then he seems to snap out of his reverie, and before I know quite what is happening he practically leaps on me and I find myself being lowered down onto the sofa. The comfortable, but frankly impractically _small_ sofa… It was never designed for someone of Tom’s stature, and most certainly not for _shenanigans_ with someone of Tom’s stature!

Thankfully he seems to come to the same realisation almost as quickly as I do, and frantically grabs the throw and cushions that I’d tidied away after our Scrabble game, tossing them haphazardly back onto the carpeted floor.

I wriggle down off the sofa, ignoring how hard the floor feels underneath me, instead reminding myself that _this is it!_ This is the moment. The one I’ve dreamed of since the moment I met this man all those many years ago.

_He wants me!_

Tom crawls on top of me, forearms resting either side of my face, and it’s only as I feel him pressing his chest close to mine that I realise he’s already disposed of his own t-shirt. The thought and deed send a shiver of desire throughout my body at the skin to skin contact. I can feel my nipples harden even more under the fabric of my bra and I thrust them insistently against his solid chest, my eyes flickering shut as an already wanton moan escapes my lips.

“Open your eyes Shortcake… I want you to watch as I _finally_ make you mine. And keep still…” he demands as one hand starts to slide up my skirt, “or would you prefer I restrain you?”

I gasp, jerking my head up to look at him.

 _How_... how did he know about _that?!_

“I seem to recall you once saying you quite enjoyed that kind of thing...” he continues, seemingly answering my unasked question. And, though his eyes remain intense, his voice belies the faintest hint of uncertainty. Is he worrying that he's overstepped the mark? Or is he just testing my boundaries?

Despite my raging insecurity - not to mention the rising panic as I try to remember when the hell I'd have _ever_ spilled my not even remotely guilty kink for a wee bit of submission in the bedroom to _Tom_ of all people - I feel I have to put him straight.

“I... I did...” I try to sound assertive, but under his unwavering gaze I'm sure I fail miserably. Still, I soldier on. Tom has already been so brave, now it is my turn to offer him more of myself. Much more.

“I do...” I repeat. And it’s only then that I catch the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh, we are going to have _so_ much fun, Shortcake!” Tom growls.

“But please. Not this time.” I blurt out hurriedly, and on seeing confusion flicker in his eyes I look away and rush on, “This time. Our _first_ time... I mean, if that's what this is and not just some pity fuck... Well I want... no. I _need_ it to really mean something. I don't want to be restrained by you, I want the full experience, and for that I want to be able to touch you, and… and _feel_ you Tom.”

My voice is breathy and I probably sound uncertain, but as I dare another glance into Tom’s eyes I see only adoration reflected back at me. And in that moment I finally relax. Well, as much as any woman could ever relax with a shirtless Tom Hiddleston lying on top of her, one hand already wandering up her skirt.

“You... are... _amazing…_ ” His voice is reverential, and yet I’m almost certain I can now hear the nagging hint of something I hope I am completely wrong about.

Before I am able to say anything, I feel him pull away, and in the next second the voluminous fabric of my gypsy skirt is neatly pulled back down, in doing so, covering my already obscenely splayed thighs.

“Tom?” I can hear the tremor in my voice as I realise he has completely drawn away from me, confirming my worst fears about the regret I'd hoped I'd only imagined hearing in his voice.

“Shortcake...” He holds a palm up as if to halt whatever plea he thinks I'm about to make for him to continue. What he doesn't know is that I have _never_ begged any man. And as sure as night follows day, I am not about to start now.

_Not even him..._

I stand up on shaky legs and close my eyes, willing away the tears. Tears for what might have been. But even more than that. Tears for the friendship we've just managed to royally fuck up in one misjudged night. I might have been able to hold myself in check before tonight. Though nearly twenty years may seem like a long time to many, we actually had long periods where we didn't see very much of one another in person. Of course we chatted online regularly, and there was the occasional FaceTime on set where he'd be having a bit of a fanboy meltdown: Steven Spielberg, Sam Neill and Jeff Goldblum to name but a few. But that distance kept my crush relatively contained. And during that time I dated. He dated. The world continued to turn on its axis.

It's only been over the last eighteen months or so that we've really been able to pick up our face to face friendship on a more regular basis.

And now it was all screwed up.

“Alice...” Tom's voice, low but pleading, forces me to finally open my eyes. I know without even touching them that my cheeks are wet with tears, but I am powerless to stop them from falling. When I finally pluck up the courage to look at him, I am hurt to note that he is already fully dressed again, his mouth set into a tight line.

Oh God! It really is going to be over. I'm never going to see him again! Despite my best efforts, a deep wail escapes my lips.

A warm hand is immediately on mine, squeezing it tightly, and I am dismayed to note that it is the same hand that had been poised to explore me so intimately only moments earlier.

When I try to pull away it tightens further and Tom tries to soothe me.

“Alice, darling please... _Sshhh, Don’t cry…”_ he urges “Whatever is going on inside that beautiful head of yours, I want you to listen to me very carefully and please understand...”

I say nothing, refusing to look at him, not wanting to see the indulgently pacifying face I've seen him make to over-zealous fangirls a million times before.

“Shortcake. I'm so very sorry for losing control. It's not an excuse per say, but I rather think I might have overdone it with the alcohol after all. I let things get out of hand.”

I sniffle in an ugly, unladylike manner and feel even more tears staining my red cheeks.

I can feel his eyes on me but I resolutely pick at my nails. He's not making this any easier right now and the defeated part of me just wants him to spit it out. ‘ _He's made a mistake. He's drunk. Can we just forget this ever happened? Blah blah blah.’_ The usual shit I would expect from most men but would _never_ have expected of Tom.

“Alice…” Tom’s plaintive sigh drags my eyes away from my nails at last, but I still can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. Instead, my gaze lingers on his lips. Lips I finally got to feel against my own. _Lips so soft that I-_

“This isn't some pity fuck!” There’s a desperation in his voice now and my eyes finally connect with his. They’re intense, yet still full of warmth, and when he realises he has my full attention again he smiles almost apologetically, “Shortcake, you made me realise something when you said you wanted the ‘ _full’_ experience. You reminded me just how much I have been craving that same thing too. The potency of just being close to you, as you finally succumbed to my advances made me forget myself momentarily, and for that I am irrevocably sorry.”

My brow wrinkles in confusion.

“So… Alice Evans. Would you please do me the honour of allowing me to take you out for dinner tomorrow evening? I want to do this right.”

My eyes widen, and if I’m honest, my brain is still more than a little discombobulated from this tumultuous evening’s turn of events. However, as Tom takes my hand in his and gently presses it to his lips in a decidedly more chaste kiss than the ones we had shared mere minutes earlier, I begin to properly digest what he’s saying.

“Yes.” I nod my head and smile shyly “I’d really like that, thank you.”

“No darling…” he exhales deeply, clearly relieved, “Thank _you_.” And then he's pulling away from me once more, bending to retrieve his glasses, his face a myriad of emotions as he starts dialling a number on his phone.

“Hi, yeah. Can I get a taxi please? As soon as possible… How long? Fantastic, thank you.”

“Where...” my voice is low, confused and I hate the needy edge that has returned to it. I cough and try again. 

“I thought you were sleeping over like you usually do?” Nope. Still needy as hell. And oh God! Is that another tear I can feel trickling down my cheek?

“Shortcake, I really don't think that would be a good idea tonight, _do you?”_ He's eying me up now like he’s a wolf that's not eaten in a month. _No. More like a fucking year!_

_I guess he has a point…_

 

**~ To be continued ~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry! 
> 
> As always, comments and constructive feedback are encouraged. Thanks for reading <3


	4. “I’m a grown woman Tom, not some helpless little girl!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice gets ready for the date, and a suppressed memory comes back to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of flashbacks in this chapter, denoted by '*'
> 
> Not really my best work. (Please ignore my shifting tenses in particular!) <3

 

I can't breathe. There's a worrying possibility that I'm about to suffer my first full-blown panic attack since I was at university, and the timing could not be any worse.

It's 7:08pm and I have been pacing my bedroom for close to an hour. I've primped and preened myself more in the last three hours than I have in the past three months. I’d booked a last-minute hair appointment for earlier this afternoon, having managed to wangle an early finish under the pretence of an urgent dental appointment. Apparently, I’m not beyond stuffing a wad of tissue inside my mouth to con my manager when I’m having a hair emergency of this magnitude.

I’d left the salon feeling confident that at least my hair would look good tonight. However, having then squashed myself onto the packed tube in the stifling city heat, what had once been a sleek, effortlessly tousled updo resembled a frizzy mess by the time I’d reached the door of my flat. 

Needless to say I ended up washing it again when I took, possibly,  _the_  longest shower in history. I gave up trying to tame the curls, instead letting them do what they do best – i.e. whatever the hell they want to. I'm now pacing in front of my bedroom fan, clad only in my underwear and doing my best to cool my over-heated - and overwrought - body enough to be able to slip on my dress.

Not that choosing my underwear had been any easier. What garments do you wear over your bits when you're pretty damn sure you'll be revealing them to THE sexiest man you've ever met. The man you also happen to have known for over half of your life and resigned yourself to just being friends with? And, the same man who's already seen your most basic undies only the night before?

Do you risk going all out with some fancy, flimsy confection that he takes one look at and immediately  _knows_  just how presumptuous and desperate you are? Or do you wear your usual every day knickers and hope he doesn't think you couldn't even be bothered to make an effort?

It was quite the quandary.

The heatwave was adding to my woes. It wasn't showing any sign of letting up and I'd been forced to rethink the outfit I was going to wear at least a dozen times over the course of the day.

In my most far-fetched dreams I'd always imagined seducing Tom in a little black dress with no underwear whatsoever underneath. But reality meant that I would not only have ended up with back ache tomorrow if I'd let the girls hang free without adequate support all evening; but I would also be sweating like a pig if I tried to squeeze my ass into the one and only little black dress I actually owned - a ridiculously tight bodycon bandage dress - in this stifling heat.

In fact, the very second Tom had left last night - well, possibly a few minutes later, given that I'd practically had to pick myself up off the floor as his declaration _finally_ registered in my brain - panic immediately began to set in. What the hell was I going to wear? Where would he be taking me? Was ten to midnight too late to call Lucy, my hairdresser, and beg her to squeeze me in tomorrow? What would happen  _after_  the date? Did Tom's desire to take me on a proper date mean the unwritten social etiquette of dating would prevail. After all, he could be extremely gentlemanly when the mood took him.

Basically, I was wondering just how many dates I was going to have to endure before I could  _finally_  get my grubby little hands on him again! 

The rational part of my brain knew that was absolutely the wrong way to look at things, of course it did!

Tom liked me. 

_Me!_

Dating him was going to be a dream come true. More than I could ever have hoped for. I _should_ enjoy it - being treated like a lady - instead of an afterthought. Or even worse, just a convenient pair of lips. Yeah, because Tom had been right about Simon (just like he was usually right about everyone else I dated). Simon really  _was_  a letch. I'd met him online and at first glance he'd seemed to share my interests, both in and out of the bedroom. I was beginning to explore my submissive tendencies, which up until recently I hadn’t really known how to label as such. Simon had seemed to fit the bill as a suitable match to try them out with.

What I didn't know then, was that he was actually just a controlling bastard obsessed with blow jobs and very little else.  He used me purely for his own gratification. What's more, I quickly learnt that he could only get it up for oral sex. Needless to say, when I started to tire of this one-way street, he dumped me.

Well more fool him. Because, if I do say so myself, I'm not _only_ bloody excellent at fellatio. But if I’m totally honest, I was actually relieved when we parted ways.

But I digress. After Tom had left last night, I had gotten myself into a right old tizzy…

_*_

_I am still pacing the floor, some twenty to thirty minutes after Tom's taxi had whisked him away._

_Did... that really just happen?! By 'that' I not only mean the declaration – because I was **definitely**  not anywhere close to believing that just yet! - but also Tom's sudden moonlight flit so soon afterwards! _

_I mean, really Thomas? He was so close to touching my... Aargh! I moan aloud in frustration, pausing to stamp my foot petulantly before resuming my pacing._

_The music is still on low, and I'm treated to Bonnie Tyler’s gravelly voice belting out ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’. How fucking appropriate._

_I still, closing my eyes and remember how it had felt to be held by Tom. Had I known then what I know now, there's a definite probability that I would not have let him go. I’d have hung, limpet-like, to his body for the rest of eternity. And I most certainly would not have kicked up such a fuss when he started necking me!_

_As if telepathic, my phone begins ringing and I freeze on the spot when I see the name on the screen._

_I knew it! He's had second thoughts. The fresh air must have brought him back to his senses. So much for me wasting my bloody time wondering if he would be the ‘perfect’ gentleman tomorrow._

_“Shortcake…” Tom purrs in my ear, causing me to shiver despite my unhelpful internal diatribe “I hope you’re tucked up in bed darling? Tomorrow’s going to be a big night. I want you well rested because I have some very specific plans for us…”_

_Hmm. Well, he hasn’t changed his mind at least. And perhaps we wouldn’t be complying with that three-date rule people so love to use… My heart races at the possibilities._

_“Alice? Are you there my darling?”_

_Oops. Must remember to engage brain!_

_“Yes... Yes Tom…” I stutter hesitantly, noting that my usual bravado towards him has totally deserted me. Instead my confidence has been replaced by a breathy impatience as I wait on tenterhooks to hear what he’s about to say next._

_Dear God I’m pathetic!_

_“Mmm... I like hearing you say yes to me” Tom whispers huskily._

_I wait for him to expand, my heart pounding even harder. I knew he'd be good at this. But I never dared to ever think he'd be **this** good. And certainly not when directing it towards me! I’m not entirely sure I will be able to cope._

_“Tom…” I can’t help but groan, hoping he’ll take pity on me and put me out of my misery right this damn second. My brain is muttering ‘Tell him to come back here and fuck you senseless!’ over and over, and another low moan escapes my lips._

_“God woman. This is harder than I thought it would be. I should never have left you so…” he pauses and I can hear him sigh heavily before he continues, his voice deeper than I have ever heard it, almost strangled “…so…unfulfilled. You have my word that I will NEVER allow that to happen again.”_

_Fuck. He really **is** a master of seduction. _

_“That is, unless of course you’ve earned yourself a punishment, in which case we will, of course, have to deal with the misdemeanour first and foremost.” He rather unhelpfully adds, and I swallow hard._

_I open my mouth, intending to tell him to get his arse back here pronto – apparently i'm no longer averse to begging if I have to – when he clears his throat and I hear him exhale deeply._

_“Alas, what is done is done. Besides, you have work in the morning, right?” His tone has reverted back to the friendly one I am much more acquainted with, and it momentarily throws me. When I don’t answer, he sighs and prompts me again “Alice? Are you still there? My apologies, I really should let you get some sleep, shouldn’t I? I simply called to let you know the table is booked. Odette’s at eight. I know how much you love it there.”_

_My mouth waters involuntarily. He’s absolutely right. A wave of relief washes over me that at least I know the restaurant well. We’re already stepping into unknown territory. I’m not sure I can handle doing it somewhere strange._

_Realising I really do need to respond in some way, I manage a “Perfect” before Tom sighs again._

_“There is just one small problem…” he pauses, and from the way he does I can just picture him stood, running his hand through his hair - or worse, his beard - as he contemplates his next words._

_I’m on tenterhooks waiting for him to continue, and I finally lose patience._

_“What is it? Spit it out Tom, I need all the beauty sleep I can get!” Aha. Always so eloquent._

_“Au contraire Shortcake, you’re already beautiful enough in my eyes.” Tom purrs smoothly “However, you are right about the time. It is very late, so I’ll get to the point and then you can get some sleep…”_

_“Thank you” I prompt, and I hear a sudden hesitance in Tom’s voice when he starts to speak again._

_“Okay, I realise this is extremely unbefitting of a first date, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to pick you up as I have a meeting across town that doesn’t finish until half past six. Will you be okay to meet me there, my darling?”_

_“Is that it?” I laugh, wondering if he’s completely taken leave of his senses “Of course I can manage to get to Primrose Hill on my own, I’m a grown woman Tom, not some helpless little girl!”_

_Tom groans again down the phone and I could almost swear it’s not from my teasing this time. I decide not to think too much on it though as I don’t want to get myself – or him - too riled up again._

_“We’ll see about that tomorrow.” Tom murmurs enigmatically, breaking through my musings once more, and before I have time to ask what on earth he means by that, he wishes me a perfunctory “Get to bed Alice. Goodnight” and he’s gone._

_I finally drag myself to bed an hour later, having hung every possible outfit option on my wardrobe doors, and eventually fall into a fitful sleep._

*

So here I am, sweating my tits off as I finally decide on The Outfit™. It’s my red A-line wrap dress. It's cute and summery, with a tiny polka dot print, but still sort of sexy in an understated way. It has a deep V neckline which flatters my boobs and the wrap belt ties nice and snuggly to accentuate my waist, while the flippy skirt skims over the curve of my hips. On a normal person the length might actually be described as somewhat scandalous, but for once my vertically challenged self is good. The pretty curved hem lands just on my knees, and so there's absolutely no danger of me accidentally flashing my stockings to all and sundry should there be a sudden gust of wind. 

Yes. I'm wearing stockings in the height of a summer heatwave. I don't want to risk getting chub rub, okay? Can you just imagine it? Finally getting down and dirty with the man of your dreams, only to have to explain your inflamed, blistered inner thighs, and then wincing every time he even comes close to touching them with that glorious beard? 

_No thank you!_

I'm not taking _any_ chances. Not that coitus is a done deal of course. But in the event that it _does_ happen to become so, I don't want my thighs to be the reason why it becomes interruptus.

The fact that I just happen to have a particularly pretty lingerie set with a matching suspender belt that I have been desperate for a reason to wear has absolutely nothing to do with it. Of course not.

Despite my panic last night at what the hell I was wearing when Tom started to strip me - _have I mentioned? Still not over that!_ \- I'm actually somewhat of a lingerie connoisseur. Along with my somewhat questionable everyday unmentionables, I have two drawers stuffed full of lace and silk, many of which are sadly still tagged. 

I actually have a different set that I would normally wear underneath this dress. It's a gorgeous crimson red satin and makes me feel super sexy, but I'm anxious that it would look like I've tried really, _really_  hard (instead of just _really_ hard) and, knowing that Tom is likely going to turn up as usual in his ubiquitous uniform anyway, I don't want to appear like a desperate saddo! I do still have a smidgen of self-respect left after all.

Instead I have plumped for a delicate cobalt blue silk set with black lace trim that manages to scoop everything up without looking like scaffolding. I bought it from Agent Provocateur earlier this year, and with a gift card that Tom himself gave to me.

At this point, I feel like I need to add a disclaimer. Tom is not aware of my extensive knicker collection – at least not to _my_ knowledge. Rather, the man gets gifted SO much booty at award shows and events in those goody bags that celebrities always get, that he likes to spread the things he has no use for around his family and friends. When I challenged him on _this_ particular gift - especially given our totally platonic relationship, at least at that time - he went a fetching shade of pink and wrinkled his nose at the suggestion that he give it to one of his sisters. And you know what? I get it. _No-one_ wants the visual of their siblings shopping in a sexy lingerie store. So, naturally I was very willing to help him out on this occasion. 

I tighten the belt on my dress, and finish my look with my trusty navy Irregular Choice heels. They’re cute and retro, and just high enough to stop me feeling like a complete midget around the man-giraffe, but with a heel that prevents me from teetering too much.

I’ve had my fair share of teetering moments around this man. I have the strange feeling he gets off on chastising me about wearing heels I can barely walk in.

_Well, let him try with these!_

I finally allow myself a smile as I take one last look in the mirror. I’ll do.

A quick spritz of perfume, a liberal handful of Moroccanoil through my curls and one final coat of clear lip-gloss, and I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be. I grab my handbag and a light cardigan, and make my way to the end of the road where I hail a cab.

As we weave through the traffic, I yet again replay the past twenty-four hours, praying that I haven’t read this entire situation completely wrong, and thinking back to a time many years ago that I had buried deep in my sub-conscious until last night.

*

_Remember how I told you that nothing had ever happened between Tom and I?_

_Well, I might have lied. Just a little white lie. But a lie all the same._

_It was the summer of 2002 and we were in the midst of our finals at Cambridge. It was a hectic, stressful time but we both still found time to date. Other people of course. Tom was dating one of my flatmates, Jenny, a statuesque redhead who I’d inadvertently introduced him to at a Christmas party. They’d been seeing each other ever since and appeared to be sickeningly in love._

_Meanwhile I was seeing a guy called Steve. We’d been dating since Easter but we weren’t particularly compatible either intellectually or physically. If I’m being completely honest with myself now, I think I only allowed it to go on as long as it did because I knew Tom hated him so much, and somewhere deep in my stupid, immature brain I was hoping that the reason for Tom’s hatred was in actual fact jealousy. I thought it might spark a reaction from Tom. A wild-declaration-of-unbridled-love sort of reaction._

_No such luck._

_I’d had three years of Tom practically being my guardian angel, escorting me home after late lectures, and waiting in the library long after he’d completed his own work until I’d finished my own studies. He thought I didn’t notice what he was doing. But I wasn’t that stupid. And it frustrated the hell out of me. He was so attentive and yet always kept me completely at arms-length. When he told me he’d do exactly the same for his sisters I’d almost lost it, finally realising that this was all he would ever see me as. I wasn’t a woman to him. I was just another sister he felt obliged to look out for, ever the gentleman and protector._

_So when Steve had asked me out, I’d readily agreed. He was easy enough on the eye that it was no great hardship, but even on our first date at a local pub it had quickly become apparent that this was never going to work between us. There just wasn’t that fizz of chemistry. Steve had walked me back to my shared flat and I’d considered saying as much, right there as we said goodnight on the pavement outside. But then I’d spotted Tom lurking in the shadows at the window, a disapproving glare on his face. I’d lost it. Instead of thanking Steve for a nice evening and saying goodbye, I’d pulled him to me and snogged his face off. When we’d finally pulled apart, Steve had looked stunned. And Tom was nowhere to be seen._

_The next few months had been almost unbearable. As it turned out, Steve wasn’t just boring, he was downright disagreeable. And he wasn’t particularly kind to me, clearly reading my frantic doorstep kiss to mean that I was in actual fact just desperate. So he took advantage of that. And Tom was an even bigger nightmare to be around because of it. He didn’t miss a single opportunity to slag Steve off around me: ‘He’s not right for you’; ‘He’s a misogynist’; ‘You deserve so much better’; ‘You should have more respect for yourself’; ‘I heard he was out with Lisa from the Student Union that night you were really sick in bed’. I would scream at Tom that he was lying and that he needed to concentrate on his own relationship because mine was none of his damn business. He would storm out, face like thunder. Probably into the welcoming, toned arms of Jenny. While I would end up on my bed, curled in a ball as I sobbed my heart out. Rinse and repeat._

_But eventually, even I couldn’t keep the pretence up any longer. I’d caught Steve outside the pub necking the aforementioned Lisa. Steve really was a dick. I told him as much and then told him to fuck off out of my life and to take his tiny limp dick with him. Impulsively he’d slapped me. Momentarily stunned, all of my frustrations from the past few years finally erupted, and I’d reacted by kneeing him in the balls before storming off. Tom was right about everything. As always._

_Strangely enough, I wasn’t particularly upset about the break-up. By that point I actually disliked Steve so much that I was constantly making excuses why I couldn't see him anyway. I was more upset that I hadn’t listened to Tom in the first place. For all we’d fought, I’d felt like I needed to apologise to him. And so, I’d found myself outside Tom’s shared flat not long afterwards, armed with a bag of sugared doughnuts, a packet of dark chocolate digestives and a six-pack of beer._

_Oh yes. And a stinging red hand print across my right cheek which I’d tried - rather unsuccessfully apparently - to hide under my always unruly curls._

_He’d spotted the mark immediately. His hands had balled into tight fists when he’d looked down at my face, his knuckles white with barely contained rage._

_I knew things were bad. After all, he’d completely ignored the peace offerings in my outstretched hands. Taking no notice of Tom’s angry expression, I’d pushed past him and dumped the goodies on the worktop in the deserted kitchen._

_“Where is he now?” Tom growled, stalking after me, his face like thunder._

_I hadn’t even needed to say who’d done it. Tom had known immediately. But I refused to answer him. Not out of any loyalty to Steve of course; rather I didn’t want Tom to mess up his future on my account. That only made him angrier. He paced like a caged tiger, ranting about what he was going to do to Steve when he next saw him, because whether I told him where he was or not, we both knew he’d see him again eventually._

_I’d pleaded with him to calm down. That I’d already dealt with it myself, and that I hadn’t come to Tom for some kind of vigilante behaviour, or to get him all riled up. I’d told him I was only there because I needed my friend back. And that I missed him. Tom was still pacing as he glared at me, his jaw ticking ominously._

_But he must have seen something in my eyes that made him stop dead._

_Tears._

_“Don’t cry. Please, Shortcake. I can’t bear to see you cry” he’d sighed and enveloped me in an almost crushing hug. I’d buried my face into his chest and let it all out. All of the hurt, betrayal, and humiliation. But more than that, I’d cried for the friendship I’d almost thrown away with Tom, and moreover, the relationship I could never have with my best friend. Because I knew, even back then that Tom would never take advantage of me like the idiot men I kept on dating._

_I don’t know how long we stood there, but eventually I’d let out a shuddering breath and mumbled against his jumper “How do you always give such great hugs Hiddleston?”_

_It took a beat for Tom to reply, and I thought he hadn’t heard me. But when he did his words confused me “Because we fit, Shortcake.”_

_“What?” I pulled away just enough to look up at him, watching as Tom’s eyes shifted from sleepy to angry in a heartbeat. I realised he was once again staring down at my cheek and sighed. A tentative hand reached up to cup it, his thumb wiping away the remnants of my tears._

_“Does it hurt, Shortcake?” he’d managed to ask, watching my face intensely for any sign of a lie._

_“Not anymore” I’d answered truthfully. Sure, I’d likely have a bit of a bruise in the morning, but right at that moment I didn’t feel anything but the warmth from his hand as he very tenderly stroked my cheek. If I was a cat I’d have been purring. Hell, I wasn’t entirely sure I wasn’t purring regardless._

_But then he did something I wasn’t expecting._

_Tom crouched down a little, his head close enough to mine that we were eye level for once. Long-lashed, brilliant blue eyes fixed on puffy, hazel ones as his hand slid down to my neck, squeezing it ever so gently as his mouth closed in on me._

_And that’s when I completely fucked everything up. Again._

_I don't know whether there was still some residual adrenaline from the fight with Steve inside me, or just three years of pent-up lust finally bubbling to the surface, but something inside me snapped._

_As Tom’s mouth moved to press an innocent kiss to my swollen cheek, my stupid lizard brain decided to intervene. I turned my head, just in time for Tom’s lips to brush against my own. My body responded before I’d even realised what I was doing and I’d found myself pressing my entire body against his as I tried to kiss him._

_Tom pulled away instantaneously, like a scalded cat._

_“I… I’m sorry. We can’t.” He stuttered rapidly, staggering back, his face a picture of anguish as he repeatedly muttered “I can’t do this to Jenny.” Back then I’d read that anguish as awkward embarrassment that his supposedly best mate had tried to come on to him._

_Looking back on it now though, I’m not entirely sure what to think._

_But I’d known I’d blown it with him, so I’d ran out of his flat as if my life had depended on it, completely ignoring his frantic voice telling me I shouldn’t walk home alone._

_We’d avoided one another for weeks afterwards, and I was convinced that I’d completely ruined our friendship for good. My heart ached, not only for what I’d almost had, even for the briefest of moments, but also for the friend I missed desperately._

_In a spiral of despair at the thought of the aching chasm I was going to find myself in once finals ended, I’d booked to go on a backpacking trip around Europe with my older sister, the flight due to leave right after my final exam. I needed some clarity. Some distance from Tom. I was driving myself insane with my unrequited feelings._

_We’d exchanged a perfunctory goodbye - Jenny ominously present - almost as if Tom was scared that I might try to jump him again. I didn’t see him after that until our graduation two months later. Even then we barely got a chance to speak properly. The hubbub of family and friends celebrating their loved one’s accomplishments made it nigh on impossible to get a minute alone. A small part of me was relieved, if I’m honest. I was doing better, I had finally decided to make my peace with our friendship. I did discover that he’d split from Jenny not long after finals and was now living in London in preparation for his first year studying at RADA. Meanwhile I’d moved up to Sheffield, ready to start my Masters in Librarianship in the Autumn._

_At the beginning of September I got a text message from Tom wishing me luck with my studies. It opened the door to what would become our redefined friendship for many years to come. Text messages, emails and the occasional postcard became our modus operandi. Very infrequently we’d meet up, usually at a reunion of some kind or other, but for the most part we maintained our long-distance friendship via electronic means. And we never spoke of that strange evening in Tom’s kitchen ever again._

_Tom’s career leapt into the stratosphere and any remnants of my past indiscretion was left behind. Or at least it seemed that way. Every time I saw the latest goddess hanging off his arm, I grew more and more certain that I’d actually dreamt the entire thing._

 

_That is, until I was in bed last night._

*

 

Now I had questions. Many, many questions.

 

**~ To Be Continued ~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly SORRY for the three(!) month wait! 
> 
> I can promise it won't be anywhere near as long a wait for chapter five as it's very nearly finished. And I promise the good stuff IS coming soon. 
> 
> Thank you as always for reading <3


	5. “Did I say anything embarrassing last night?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of The First Date™ with a healthy dose of angsty flashback, because I do what I want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this took! Tumblr deleted my account and then I had a chest infection. Oh yeah, and somewhere in between all that I was in London for Betrayal (if you've seen it, you might spot some influences in the flashback scene) ;)

 

Tom is waiting for me outside the restaurant when I arrive. Contrary to my prediction, he is not bedecked in his go-to uniform, but rather a sharply fitted, midnight blue suit. It’s one that I don’t recall having seen him wear before, and that realisation alone gives me an unexpected thrill. He's teamed it with a pristine white shirt, the top two buttons open wide and giving me a distracting view of soft, golden skin and sparse chest hairs. Unlike mine, his curls have been swept back off his face, coiffed to perfection, and his beard also appears to have had a tidy up. It seems I’m not the only one who has put some effort into getting ready for tonight - a thought that makes me smile despite my nerves.

He whips off his Ray Bans when he spots me and gives a low whistle. I have to stop myself from whistling right back at him when I realise just how much the colour of his suit makes his blue eyes appear even brighter. Eyes that are magnetically trained on me.

“Wow. You look... incredible” he murmurs appreciatively, brushing my cheek with a barely-there kiss before solicitously guiding me through the restaurant to our table outside in the garden. Before the waiter has the opportunity to do it himself, Tom pulls out a chair and seats me.

“As do you” I finally respond woodenly, and immediately curse myself. I need to relax.

He slips off his jacket and takes his seat opposite mine, immediately reaching out for my hand which is noticeably trembling as I fidget with the cutlery.

“Shortcake, it's just me, remember. I’m the same person you’ve been watching TV with every week for the past year or so, and I’m still the same idiot who fell in the river all those years ago when we were celebrating the end of our first-year exams.”

I let out the breath I hadn't even realised I was holding in. He knows me so well.

“Oh God! Do you remember that? You emerged like the creature from the black lagoon!” I snort inelegantly at the memory, but rather than be repelled, Tom throws his head back and laughs too.

I remember back to all the times when Tom would act the fool to cheer me up, a faint flicker of pride dancing across his handsome features as he would revel in my amusement, watching me bent double, desperately clutching my sides with laughter. The memories reassure me and I relax a little more.

“You need to know something Alice” Tom interrupts my thoughts “I live for our time together. Everything just seems… brighter when you're around.” 

I feel my cheeks heating up at the compliment. Little does he know how much he lights up my own life. I open my mouth to say as much, when we are interrupted by the waiter, asking if we are ready to order our drinks.

Under normal circumstances we would order a bottle of wine straight off, but I get the distinct feeling both of us want to keep a somewhat clearer head than we would usually do. Instead, I order a glass of Pinot Noir and Tom nods approvingly, ordering the same.

The waiter quickly returns with our wine plus a jug of iced water for the table and fills our glasses.

“Are you ready to order?” he prompts and we laugh conspiratorially. We haven’t been able to take our eyes off one another long enough to even look at the menu. The waiter senses the mood and nods, discreetly leaving us for a few more minutes.

I pick up my menu and debate the pros and cons of the delicious dishes on offer, finally deciding on something filling but not too heavy. I peek over my menu only to find Tom staring at me over his, a soft smile on his face.

“What?” I look down at myself, ensuring everything is in place. Girls still strapped in nicely - check. And with a decent looking cleavage, if I do say so myself. My hand instinctively attempts to pat down my curls, hoping the soft summer breeze in the garden isn’t making them look even crazier than usual.

“They’re perfect. You’re perfect. Please, Alice. Relax”

“I’m really trying to, Tom. This is just so… strange, I guess. I mean, being here with you isn’t strange. We’ve done it so many times. Why am I telling you that? _You_ know that already. I just… I mean being here… with you… Looking at me like… _that_ …” I’m aware I’m babbling, but apparently, I’m powerless to stop.

Thankfully Tom rescues me. He raises his glass of wine and nods towards my own “I think we should officially toast our first date, don’t you? Then we can stop with all of this nervousness and just enjoy our evening. What do you say?”

I nod wordlessly and raise my own glass.

“To Alice, one of my oldest and dearest friends, but also the most exquisite woman I have ever laid eyes on. I cannot wait to explore this new facet of our relationship.” He gives me a meaningful smile and then clinks my glass “Cheers.”

My cheeks flush with colour again at his widely inaccurate flattery, but I force myself not to break eye contact as I return the toast. “To Tom, without exception, the most beautiful human being, both inside and out, that I have ever had the privilege of knowing…” I smile at him then, my heart racing as I see a look of pure adoration directed back at me. I squirm a little in my seat as his eyes slowly drop down from mine to my lips and back up again. Inexplicably, I feel the need to break the simmering tension and finish off my little toast with the rather less eloquent “Let’s have a good ‘un!” as I gently clink his glass with my own.

The tension is broken by a guffaw of laughter from Tom, who quickly composes himself, a grin on his face as he finally lifts his glass to his lips and takes a slow sip.

The ruby red liquid slips through his parted lips, and I find myself mesmerized. I've lost count of the number of times I've drank with this man, but watching him now - the stakes having shifted so dramatically over the last twenty-four hours - I cannot help but to find myself hyper-aware of every minute move he makes.

As if equally aware of what's going on in my silly little brain, his big warm hand creeps back across the linen table-cloth and envelopes mine, squeezing it gently.

Encouragingly.

“Shortcake...” He nods towards my untouched glass, “Take a sip. I think it might help with the nerves.”

Wordlessly I lift the glass to my mouth, my eyes still glued to Tom’s as he in turn watches me closely, the tip of his tongue his only acquiescence to any form of movement as it darts out to lick away a residual drop of wine from his still parted lips.

I'm reminded of just how close that tongue came to setting my body on fire last night and I'm powerless to look away.

The wine in my hand, however, suddenly seems like a perfect distraction and I tip the glass, ready to take a long, deep gulp.

“Ah ah…” Tom tuts and I instinctively slow down, instead swallowing only a small mouthful.

“Slowly...” He purrs approvingly “We don't want you intoxicated now, do we?” He’s got a knowing glint in his eyes and I pray he’s not remembering the last time I was thoroughly soused in his presence. It really wasn’t my finest moment. Not that I can remember half of it. But I remember enough to know I made an absolute tit of myself that night.

Besides, little does Tom know just how intoxicating his mere presence can be.

“I intend for you to remember _everything_ about this night.” He continues, seemingly oblivious to my brief trip down memory lane, and there's an edge to his voice which drags me back to the present with a shiver of anticipation.

We are once again interrupted by the waiter, and this time I am very much relieved. I could feel my tenuous composure slipping again and so I chastise myself. I have got to calm down! We quickly order our meals and I take a deep, cleansing breath as I finally find the nerve to ask one of the many questions that has been niggling at me ever since last night’s revelations.

“Tom... why did you never say anything?”

“Darling…” he chides “Neither did you!”

Touché.

“But... but... you never once looked at me the way you did Jenny. Or Su-”

“Trust me, I did..." he cuts me off "You just never saw it. Is that what your nervousness is all about? Because I didn't try to come on to you? Christ Alice! I was besotted with you from the very first moment we met! In fact, even before that. I was smitten the second I laid eyes on you. I can remember it as clearly as it was just yesterday.” He smiles nostalgically “You were sprawled out on the lawns down by [The Backs](https://www.visitcambridge.org/things-to-do/the-backs-p507481). It was Freshers’ week and you were wearing those ridiculously baggy strawberry print dungarees that swamped all of your gorgeous curves, and you were reading Tolstoy. In Russian! You had a little purple notebook by your side and a green pencil tucked into your hair. The colour perfectly complimented your pink curls. And you were wearing those big, old glasses that hid half of your beautiful face.”

I’m shocked at the level of detail Tom is able to recount, but find myself cringing at the memory of how outlandish I must have looked back then.

“God, I probably looked a total mess-”

“You looked enchanting.” Tom reassures “Like a mischievous little pixie or something equally spirited. I was enraptured by the way you were just so... so _free_. Like you didn't have a single care in the world.” His voice trails off and he looks at me, a flicker of vulnerability momentarily marring his handsome features as he murmurs “And then you looked at me as if I was a total idiot.”

“I did not!” I protest.

_But did I?_

I do remember having a bit of a chip on my shoulder back then around anyone I considered to even _look_ entitled. I was from a working-class background and got into Cambridge through sheer hard work and with the financial help of a scholarship. When I first arrived there I’d felt completely out of my comfort zone, my Edinburgh twang sounding so different from the clipped, cut glass accents I was suddenly surrounded by. Did I inadvertently stop something from developing between us before we’d even spoken, simply because I wrongly assumed Tom was some pompous, elitist snob? The mere thought makes me want to cry. And I suspect he’d be incredibly upset to know it.

“It felt like it.” We both sigh in recognition of the time we’ve lost, and what, perhaps, _might_ have been, had I not been such a grumpy, judgemental sod back then.

“You were pretty intimidating.” Tom continues “You lowered your glasses, gave me a quick flick of those gorgeous kaleidoscope eyes – they were hazel and gold that day because of the sunlight - and immediately dismissed me, going back to reading your book.”

Kaleidoscope eyes? Oh Hiddleston, you old charmer!

But he’s not finished.

“I knew there and then that I didn't stand a chance with you. You were far too cool for me. I was so straight-laced back then. Far too serious and pre-occupied with getting the grades so I could impress my dad and soften the blow that I’d chosen to pursue acting rather than the ‘ _real’_ career he’d always hoped of for me. But I was infatuated with you, so I made damn sure to find a way to be your friend at the very least.”

“But. I wasn't… I mean, I’m _not_ cool. Not even a little bit.”

“Well… I know that _now_ Shortcake!” he smirks, winking teasingly at me.

I narrow my eyes at him, ready to banter back but our food arrives and despite my earlier nerves, plus these latest revelations from Tom, hunger overrides everything. This isn’t weird, I tell myself. You’ve eaten with Tom hundreds, if not thousands of times before. It’s just another meal.

And so I concentrate on my plate, filling my cheeks like a greedy hamster with the tasty mushroom filled pasta. As I gorge myself, I realise just how hungry I must have been. I’d skipped breakfast and lunch, too nervous to even contemplating eating.

I’ve almost finished the generous portion before I remember I’m on a date and perhaps I shouldn’t stuff myself into a food-induced coma.

Tom, meanwhile, is slowly chewing a mouthful of steak, watching me indulgently.

“What?” I mumble as I swallow another overfilled mouthful of delicious yumminess.

“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here, and that we’re finally doing this.”

He does that sleepy eyed slow-blink thing that always makes me swoon and I can’t take my eyes off his. I force myself to be bold for once, and instead of breaking eye contact, I take a final bite of my food as I continue to watch Tom casually finishing his own meal. He’s clearly savouring every mouthful unlike my own greedy display.

As he finally sets down his cutlery, another sudden wave of anticipation hits me and I reach again for my wine. Ignoring his earlier warning, this time I drain the glass.

His eyes seem to narrow almost infinitesimally and I swear I see a brief flash of disapproval, but I choose not to dwell on it as I enjoy the warming buzz of alcohol. Instead I take a small sip of water and try to keep our earlier conversation going.

“So… I’m not cool then?” I tease him. Despite my earlier protest, I know he’s right, even before he answers. The fact is, I’m deeply uncool and profoundly proud of it. I do what I want to do, not whatever fad is currently in fashion. That’s something we unquestionably have in common.

“No, you’re definitely not cool darling. I’d say you’re pretty smoking hot actually” he winks at me, and, despite the smug smirk tugging at his lips at his cheesy line, I know I’m blushing yet again even without touching my cheeks. Damn it, he’s too good at all this wooing business!

I swallow hard but push on, bolstered by my little rush of alcohol.

“So, did you _really_ let me win last night?”

As I wait for an answer, I notice that unlike last night, Tom has been fastidious in watching his own alcohol consumption as well as mine. Just enough to take the edge off. Not enough to inhibit him in any way. I don’t want to be presumptuous but I’m sincerely hoping it’s because he intends to be less than gentlemanly later on.

“Shortcake…” he purrs again, knowingly “I had to do something. I was at my wits end just being around you. But... if you'd like, we can replay our little game another time.”

“I... what...?"

“Oh don't worry, there will be no board or tiles involved. Think of this as more of an… oral test.”

He gives me a meaningful look and I can feel my already warm cheeks flush with heat again. All of my usual flirty banter deserts me and I feel like I’m about to lose my mind. I whisper an evasive “Maybe…” but my chest is tightening and I know I’m heading towards another panic attack unless I take pre-emptive measures.

“Um… I need the loo. Be back in a min.” I mutter and scramble unsteadily to my feet, forgetting I’m wearing heels in my haste. I mentally thank the God’s that at least I went with my less wobbly options, otherwise there’s a high probability I’d be on my arse right about now.

Before Tom has time to even utter another word, much less stand, I steady myself and leg it to the bathroom to compose myself. I need to sort my head out. If I thought I used to squirm around Tom when I was trying to hide my crush, it has got _nothing_ on the way I’m feeling right now. So much attention directed solely on me is quite overwhelming.

Hastily closing the door behind me, I heave a momentary sigh of relief and try my best to regulate my breathing. Oh God. Is this how it’s always going to be between us now? I don’t think my heart could take it! I know I was a mess before Tom’s revelations, but having him talk to me like he wants to do wickedly delicious things is still so new and strange. Will I ever be able to get past my own stupid brain running interference and making me question everything he says? I sincerely hope so, because I have my own – _very long_ \- list of wicked things I’d like to do to him.

I hear movement just outside the door and dart into one of the toilet cubicles, slumping down on the seat as I continue to focus on my breathing. I remind myself that I wouldn’t even _be_ here tonight with Tom if he hadn’t wanted to be with me. He’s cut me out once before, back when we were both young and more than a bit stupid. Now I look back on it, seeing it with fresh eyes, I understand how confused Tom must have felt that night when I’d come on to him at university. Though we were the best of friends throughout our time at Cambridge, I had always tried to keep him at arms-length when it came to my love life, not wanting my own heart to be crushed by rejection. Had he been in self-protection mode all that time, just as I had?

His earlier words still ring in my ears. He’d been watching me, that first day that we met. He’d been _‘fascinated’_ by me. It sounded so utterly implausible. He’s Tom Hiddleston, famous actor and boyfriend of the internet. I’m just little old me. I don’t have a flashy job or social life. I’m not in control of my life. Jesus, I can’t even control my hair!

But then I think back to how attentive he’s always been around me. How he’s always looked after me, and how angry he used to get around some of my ex boyfriends. I used to put that down to a clash of personalities. After all, I think I purposely chose the polar opposites of Tom. And most turned out to be dickheads, so he was ultimately justified in his distrust and, dare I say it, hatred of them. But this new information is making me question everything I thought I knew about our relationship.

And it throws up the question of whether Tom had tried to tell me once before, one very, very drunken night not all that long ago. A night I’d forced myself to forget. Until now.

*

_It was the engagement party of Duncan and Juliette, two of our mutual friends from Cambridge._

_There were close to forty of us, squeezed into an elegant, but perhaps rather too intimate private dining room in an extremely exclusive Mayfair restaurant. The result was I found myself squeezed right up against Tom at the dining table, thigh to thigh, elbow to elbow. I should have been happy about that. But on his other side was his latest fling._

_I'd recently split from yet another failed relationship. I say relationship. At what point does one officially go from merely dating to 'in a relationship'? I never know. I'd been seeing George for almost three months, and we were - as far as I was aware - monogamous from day one. And to be fair to him, George was very, very sweet. Perhaps too sweet. There was little excitement in our 'is-it-or-is-it-not-a-relationship' and eventually I started to dodge his calls. To be frank? I was bored. I actually made him cry when we inevitably had the 'It's not you, it's me' talk - it was most definitely me. It was not my finest hour. But I had finally realised that I needed something more… unconventional when it came to intimacy. I needed something more exciting. George and I had the most vanilla sex ever. It was almost always missionary. Minimal, predictable foreplay that always left me distinctly unfulfilled, and, despite the regularity, I simply wasn’t feeling any genuine emotional connection with him. But he was so earnest and attentive that I tried to block it out for a while. Eventually I realised that I was being selfish. I would never love this man the way he deserved to be loved. So we parted ways, and there I was again._

_Single and alone at a dinner party._

_Tom hadn't looked any happier at the seating arrangement than I had, to be fair. He appeared to be in a foul mood from the moment he set eyes on me, which was strange for the usually gregarious man giant. I also noticed there seemed to be some simmering tension between him and his date. I hadn't seen her before, and from the strained chemistry between them I was almost certain I wouldn't be seeing her again._

_As if to confirm his less than affable mood, I caught Tom chugging back his wine at an alarming rate. I’d already smelled whiskey on his breath when he’d first arrived, so I knew he’d been drinking before he’d even got to the restaurant. He rarely managed to get drunk, even when he tried really, really hard. But, by the time our main course plates had been cleared away - a miracle Tom's was even still intact, judging by the ferocious stabbing of his lamb - he was steaming drunk._

_I tried to pretend I hadn't noticed, choosing to ignore him altogether and instead talking to the man on my right, Ian, who was Juliette's older brother. He was great company, attentive and amusing as he told hilarious tales about his job as a teacher. He was married, his wife sitting across the table and chatting animatedly to Duncan’s sister, and that fact allowed me to relax and just enjoy the conversation without worrying about any awkward flirting. But occasionally my eyes would wander to my left and I'd surreptitiously sneak a peek at my best friend’s increasingly unruly behaviour._

_When Tom slammed his empty wine glass down on the table for the umpteenth time, I'd finally had enough._

_“Tom, what on earth is up with you?!” I hissed quietly, my eyes darting around the table to the other guests. I was relieved to note that a fair few were out of their seats, stretching out their squashed limbs and with their backs to us. A few more had left the room altogether, probably for a loo or cigarette break._

_“What's up with me?!” He growled, his hand instinctively reaching towards another bottle of wine._

_I was mad then. Not only at Tom. But also at his date. We might be in a room with some of our oldest friends, but there were also strangers here. He had a reputation to uphold. Tom knew it. I knew it. So why the fuck didn't his date seem to know it? And why wasn't **she**  saying anything?_

_But as I leaned forward I realised I wasn't going to get an answer to that question anytime soon._

_Tom's date was nowhere in sight._

_“Tom...” I lowered my voice even more, doing my best not to draw further attention to the drunken man alongside me. And he was **really** drunk, I realised with an uneasy shiver. It had been many, many years since I’d last seen him in this bad a state. _

_“Maybe we should get you some air. Or coffee. Coffee is probably better, right? Let’s get you a double espresso.” I looked away from him and stared at the empty plates around us. Dessert had been served. Speeches had already been made. They’d likely be serving coffee here soon enough but I needed to get Tom out of this room. I felt sure we could easily slip out without any real kerfuffle._

_“I don't need you to look after me when the mood takes you!” He growled at me._

_What the fuck was that supposed to mean?_

_“Fine!” I flinched at his tone, trying to tell myself it was just the alcohol talking. “Get your new **girl-** friend to do it then!” I growled back, emphasising the word ‘girl’. She hadn't looked a day over 25 to me. Not that I was judging..._

_“Amanda left. And she's not my girlfriend.”_

_“Oh great! So you brought some casual shag to our friend's engagement party! Classy, Hiddleston!” I tried to sound jokey but I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my voice._

_“I never shagged her. And I never will.” He hissed quietly._

_“What's the matter? The reality of 'Tom-pisshead-Hiddleston' not live up to her idea of Disney-Prince-Celebrity-Tom?” I muttered passive-aggressively. I too had been drinking, though at least I still had most of my wits about me._

_“Fuck off!” He roared, and staggered to his feet._

_I was aware of eyes now fixing on him, and despite the venom in his voice just then, I knew I needed to do as much damage control as I could._

_“Tom, seriously, let's just go get some coffee. I could murder a cappuccino.”_

_“I’m not stopping you, and I don't need your pity, Alice.” He spat, and for once in my life I found myself disappointed at the lack of **that**  pet name. _ _“You know? I never got why everyone used to always say you were standoffish before.”_

_“W... what?” His words blindsided me. Where the hell was this suddenly coming from?_

_“You heard me. You must know what people called you back at uni?” he paused, reaching down for his glass of wine, only to find it empty. He went to refill it and I moved the bottle out of his reach. We glared at one another as if we were in a Mexican standoff._

_Tom finally broke eye contact as he muttered under his breath. “Aloof Alice.”_

_I'd almost forgotten that. Or rather I’d forced myself to forget. And I hadn't heard it in years. The fact that it was Tom saying it now hurt me more than I could even put into words though. He’d always had my back. I had no idea what had changed, or where all of this sudden vitriol was even coming from, but apparently he was on a roll, oblivious to how his words stung._

_“I tried to tell them they were wrong. I told them they just didn't understand you the way I did. But maybe...”_

_Don't say it. Don't say it Tom. Please don't say..._

_“...They were right all along?”_

_Too late._

_“Maybe it was me who was wrong.” His large palm scrubbed his face and he looked wretched. “Fuck!” His shoulders slumped and he looked to the ground “What am I even doing here?”_

_I wasn't exaggerating when I told you Tom was my best friend at university. He was almost my only friend. My flatmates were just that. We barely spoke, except to make rules and rotas, which inevitably no-one ever followed. Juliette was my only other close friend. And to be honest, I was only really friends with her because Tom had been friends with Duncan ever since his days at Eton. Juliette and Duncan had got together soon after starting at Cambridge, dated throughout, then spent several years after graduating travelling the world. Duncan had finally decided to propose on their most recent anniversary. I often wondered if that could have been me and Tom in another lifetime. But I guessed even that daydream was ruined now._

_“We’re here for Duncan and Juliette.” I sighed, forcing down the lump in my throat, telling myself it was just the alcohol talking, despite the nagging doubt that this was what Tom really thought of me. Regardless, I was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry._

_“Whatever Alice.” Tom hissed, bringing me back to the nightmare unfolding before my eyes “All I know with any certainty right now is that I'm sick of you going from ignoring me to judging me. And I'm sick of you looking at me like I'm a piece of shit.”_

_I gasped at the venom in his voice. Where the hell was this coming from?_

_“I didn’t come here tonight intending to ignore you, Tom! But you’ve been in a weird mood all evening. And besides, you seemed much more interested in your date, which of course you should be…” I forced myself to add, even though I – unreasonably, I know - thought nothing of the sort._

_He glared at me, looking as if he wanted to say something but I got in first. “She seems to have had enough of you too though. What the hell did you say to her to piss her off so quickly? Or was she paid by the hour and you forgot to bring your wallet?”_

_I regretted the insinuation as soon as it was out of my mouth, but whether it was because he was steaming drunk or simply because he was inherently a much better person than I was, Tom thankfully didn’t jump on it. Instead he shook his head sadly and looked down to the floor as he whispered._

_“I can count on one hand the number of serious relationships I've had. And you're judging me for one single, perhaps ill-advised date?”_

_The thing is, he was right. I **had** judged him. Maybe he was right about everything else he’d said as well. I definitely didn’t try anywhere near hard enough to make new friends or push myself out of my comfort zone. Maybe I was also a shit friend. I definitely allowed my jealousy to get in the way. _

_His earlier words still hurt though._

_I forced down the anger and frustrated tears that I could feel bubbling up inside me. I was probably drunk. Tom was definitely drunk, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time. He didn’t mean any of this. Going off on him in this state would only confirm he was right about me being a crappy friend. And I **was** jealous. I had turned up alone yet again with another failed ‘relationship’ behind me, and he’d had another tall, glamorous date in tow that I absolutely could not compete with looks-wise. I needed to stop letting my own insecurities get in the way of Tom’s happiness. So instead, I pulled up my big girl pants and reminded myself I was just his friend. And then I did what any real friend would do. Made one last effort to get him out of there.   _

_“Listen Tom, I am in no position to judge anyone on their relationships, and you know that. I just need to get out of here and drink some coffee. So are you coming or aren't you? It's not always about you, you know!” The tears were bubbling up again as I pulled myself upright, hating the way the alcohol immediately rushed to my head and made me sway precariously on my uncomfortably high heels._

_Still, I resolutely refused to let them fall as I waved goodbye to our friends. They looked from me to Tom and back again as I gestured an 'I'll call you" sign with my hand._

_And then I stormed out, not waiting to see if he’d followed me. Because I knew, however drunk he was, however pissed off with me he felt, he would never let me wander about alone late at night._

_I say stormed… It was probably more of a Bambi on ice, half strut-half wobble situation as the alcohol and heels combo thwarted my attempts. But as it turned out, I managed to weave my way through the rest of the restaurant and out onto the deserted street without incident, and Tom had indeed followed mutely behind me. I looked up and down the street for anywhere we could grab a coffee, but the chi-chi restaurant was on a side-street full of designer boutiques. There wasn’t a single coffee shop or late-night cafe in sight. I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight._

_Crap._

_There was a bar and a pub on opposite corners of the street. I might want to punch him right now, but Tom was still my best friend and I didn't want a bunch of drunken revellers spotting him in this state._

_Tom._

_I spun on my heels. The tall, lean silhouette swayed by the door noncommittally. His hair, at that awkward not-short-not-long stage was an absolute mess. I watched mesmerized for a moment as he tugged at the knot of his tie with two long fingers, grunting as he did, before sighing with relief as he managed to open the top two buttons of his dress shirt._

_Fuck! Why did he have to be so hot!_

_He attempted to light a cigarette with very little success. God only knows where he’d got that from, he’d given up ages ago. It was yet another sign of just how pissed he truly was. He only ever smoked when he was absolutely wasted._

_My mind was made up. I needed to get him home, before either one of us did – or possibly said – something stupid again. And before anyone else saw him in this state._

_I caught sight of a taxi letting some people out at the bar just up the road and waved furiously. As it eased up to the kerb alongside me, I waved Tom in, finding myself having to bundle a man practically twice my size into the seat. The taxi driver looked curiously from the hunched over body to me and back again, clearly recognising Tom._

_“He’d better not be sick in the cab. Famous or not, I’ll turf the both of you out on the street and you'll be walking home!”_

_I rolled my eyes but said nothing, biting my tongue as I prayed we’d make it home without further incident. Tom was strangely quiet when the taxi driver asked us where he was taking us, so I took the executive decision of directing the cabbie to my own flat, figuring it just easier. But Tom sat stony faced after that. I couldn't decide whether he was sulking again, or if he was trying to concentrate on not vomiting. It was unusual, but not unheard of for Tom to get so wasted that he'd be sick. Unlike me of course. But that's a whole other story._

_So I ignored him, tapping away on my phone and pretending I was having an exceedingly interesting and exciting conversation with someone else. In reality I was sending an apologetic text to Juliette, pretending that Tom had had a weird reaction to some anti-inflammatories I remembered he was taking for an old back injury. I knew she wouldn’t buy it for one second, but as always my instincts were to try to protect Tom._

_A tense ride later we were finally outside my block of flats. Tom hadn't spoken to me at all in the taxi. It was only after I’d paid the driver and climbed out of the cab that I realised he'd dozed off._

_Rolling my eyes, I climbed back inside and gave him a hard dig with my elbow. I didn't have a cat in hell's chance of shifting Tom by myself. The man was twice the size of me! He was bloody well going to have to do his own heavy lifting._

_“Tom! We’re here. Get your arse moving. I’m not carrying you!” I hissed as I shook him awake. He stared at me in bewilderment then, his demeanour momentarily warm, smiley and sleepy-eyed, before he seemingly remembered something and his eyes turned cold and distant again._

_“Stop yanking my arm woman, I heard you!” he slurred and I let go, shaking my head at the absurdity of his behaviour. He was doing a great impression of a petulant child right now as he crossed his arms and glared at me, making no attempt to move. I momentarily considered slamming the door in his face and letting him fend for himself, but I knew I’d never forgive myself if he went home in this state and something happened to him._

_I could see the taxi driver was losing his patience too._

_“For fucks sake! Get. Out. Of. The. Cab. NOW!” I finally lost it, screaming at him as tears of frustration pricked at my eyes, and realising just how loud I must have been when I caught sight of a twitch of curtains across the street._

_Great! Now I’ve pissed my neighbours off as well._

_But my out of control demeanour must have registered with Tom at last, as he finally clambered out of the taxi, almost ending up on his arse in the gap between the road and the kerb in the process. He looked distinctly sheepish as he eventually righted himself, but I couldn’t even bring myself to ask if he was okay. I was **that** angry._

_The taxi driver screeched away, clearly unable to get away from our dysfunctional arses fast enough. I couldn’t really blame him to be honest. And I’m sure he’d take great delight in regaling his mates with the sorry tale soon enough._

_I rooted around in my handbag for my front door key, and once inside, I stormed into the kitchen, my heels click clacking angrily on the wooden floor. I flicked on the kettle and pulled out two mugs. I didn’t have a fancy coffee machine like Tom so instant was just going to have to do._

_“I'm sorry I told you to fuck off. I don't **ever** want you to disappear from my life again Shortcake.” Tom sighed miserably from behind me, making me jump. _

_I didn’t even trust myself to speak, let alone look at him. Instead, I continued to spoon coffee granules into the two mugs, slamming the spoon down and tapping my nails on the worktop as I impatiently watched the kettle come to a boil._

_“And I didn’t mean anything else I said to you. I was just annoyed with myself.” He muttered, and I could hear the sadness in his voice “I don't like using people. I shouldn't have even brought Amanda. I only did it...” His words trailed off cryptically and there was another awkward silence._

_I filled our mugs and finally turned with one in each hand. Tom was leaning against the door jamb, filling the entire doorway but somehow managing to look like a lost little child, his head bowed pitifully._

_“It's fine.” I sighed back as I held his favourite ‘Yoda Best Curator’ mug out towards him._

_“So you don't care?” There was that aggressive tone again._

_I huffed, my patience growing thinner by the second, and finally hissed at him angrily “Of course I care Tom! You're my oldest friend. It hurts like a bitch when we fall out.”_

_“I meant about Amanda.” He muttered under his breath, but I heard him. “You don't care.” He sighed resignedly, his shoulders slumped once again._

_“What do you want me to say Tom? To count all of the reasons why the two of you would never work? Or are you expecting me to fly into a jealous rage or something?”_

_It was out before I’d even realised the implication of what I was insinuating._

_Tom's eyes narrowed. “Anything would be preferable to you apparently not even giving a fuck. Jealous rage. Whatever you want to call it. Anything…”_

_“Tom…” I gulped, alarmed at his demeanour “You know we don't have that kind of relationship. I don't get to be jealous of what you do, or who you do it with for that matter. Just as you don't get to be jealous of what - or whom – I… erm… do.”_

_Jeez Alice! Did you really just say that? Eloquent as always!_

_Tom’s eyes met mine and they flashed with hurt. He started to move towards me. There was none of his usual, effortlessly graceful swagger. He kind of trudged over, shoulders stooped and almost tripping over his big old clown feet. There was a weird electricity in the air, and when he reached me, having taken at least three more steps than it would usually take him, he was almost toe to toe with me. He was swaying more than a little (or was that still me?) and I held my breath._

_His hand reached up towards my face, and for the briefest of moments I honestly thought he was going to cup my cheek, maybe even kiss me. I inhaled a breath, my head swimming with long-repressed hopes and fantasies of this very moment. But at the last second - his big hand wavering just above the surface of my skin - he let out a mournful sigh, and dropped his hand to my still outstretched one, encircling the mug and releasing it from my grip._

_There was the briefest touch of skin on skin as our fingers brushed one another’s, and then he was gone._

_I stood looking after him, my heart pounding rapidly as I replayed his words. He was angry at me for not being jealous? No. He couldn’t possibly be. I must have been more drunk than I originally thought. And he was definitely still drunk. I took a long gulp of the coffee and winced. It was vile. I threw the rest down the sink and instead filled a glass with water, downing it in one._

_I knew I’d better sort Tom out. God only knows where he’d gone or what he was doing now._

_I made my way into the lounge, expecting to find him sprawled on my sofa, but all I found was his mug abandoned on the coffee table, barely touched. Well I couldn’t really blame him for that._

_But I hoped he hadn’t left. He was in no fit state to be wandering the streets._

_I turned back towards the door and he came out of the bathroom, scrubbing his face wearily._

_“Do you want to go to bed?”_

_He stared at me wordlessly for the longest time, slowly widening and blinking his eyes and clearly doing his best to keep them open. Ah. Sleepy Tom had finally entered the building. I relaxed a little, recognising the change in demeanour. He wouldn’t be any more bother tonight. He’d sleep it all off, apologise profusely in the morning, maybe even buy me a full English somewhere, and then we’d vow never to speak of this weird night ever, ever again._

_“Make yourself at home” I gestured down to the end of the hall, where the two pokey bedrooms of my flat were situated “You know where everything is.” Tom had stayed over enough to know his way to the guest room in his sleep._

_“Do you want anything?” I reminded myself I was a good host, even if I was still more than a little pissed off with his behaviour tonight._

_Tom glanced at me then, his eyes widening and his lips parting as if about to say something, before quickly thinking better of it. He shook his head wordlessly and walked towards the spare bedroom as I nipped back into the kitchen, refilling my own glass of water and a second for Tom. I went to the spare room with it, only to find the door still open and it empty._

_I sighed, I needed the bathroom. I hoped he wasn’t being sick in there._

_I stood waiting outside the door for a minute or two before a noise somewhere else altogether made me jump._

_“Oof... fuck!”_

_My eyes widened as they set on the door to my right._

_No. He wouldn't. Would he?_

_I pushed open my own bedroom door, only to drop my glass of water on the carpeted floor at the sight that greeted me._

_There, spread-eagled, and practically naked, save for a very snug fitting pair of white Calvin Klein boxers which barely protected his modesty – particularly from where I was standing - lay Tom, sprawled face down on my duvet. His trousers were dangling down from his lean ankles off the edge of my regular sized double bed, shoes still in place, and his size made the bed look like it belonged to a toddler. His hideously expensive shirt was screwed up under his chin like a makeshift pillow and God only knows where his tie and jacket had gone._

_“Did you get lost or something?” I was actually proud of myself that I was even able to form a coherent sentence with the amount of drool that seemed to have rapidly accumulated in my mouth._

_“Mmmpth…”_

_“Tom…” I didn’t trust myself to poke him. There was just… So. Much. Bare. Skin._

_I didn’t trust my hands._

_Or my mouth._

_Or him for that matter._

_Fuck! If he were to roll over I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to stop myself from jumping him! And that would be so, so wrong. On SO many levels. Not only would it be a gross breach of our mutual trust, but I felt certain our friendship would never recover._

_So, clenching my fists until my knuckles turned white, I summoned every ounce of my self-control and stormed out of the room, ignoring his sleepy groans, the split water and the – thankfully unbroken – glass, but leaving the door ajar and the hall light on in case he woke up disorientated. After all, he’d never slept in my room before._

_As I moved to close the spare room door behind me, I froze, hearing a guttural groan, unlike the drowsy ones I’d heard only moments earlier._

_Oh fuck me! He wasn’t…_

_Please God, don’t let him be doing what it sounded like he was doing. Not on my bed. And definitely not on my bed without me in it! There was only so much a woman could take. Yet I stood, frozen to the spot, scarcely daring to breathe, much less move as I strained my ears despite the nagging voices in my head._

_What if he’s lying on your bed, wanking as he thinks of someone else? How fucked up is that?_

_I bristled at the mere thought and willed myself to make a stand for myself. He can’t do this! It’s a step too far. No here. Not in my bedroom. It’s my sanctuary. But when I finally summoned the courage to peek my head back out of the spare room towards the open door of my bedroom, I could no longer hear anything. I was just about to give up and get into bed when I heard an even more recognisable sound. It was one I'd heard so many times before from Tom’s lips._

_'Shortcake'_

_I told myself I was mistaken. But I listened again, this time venturing back out into the hallway. I hovered close to the doorway, but I resolutely refused to push that door open further. It felt like I’d be opening Pandora’s Box and I was not nearly sober enough to be making that kind of decision. And what if I was completely mistaken about what I’d heard? I would be mortified. Tom would be mortified. He might never trust me again._

_The thought brought me to my senses and I dashed back to the spare room, shutting the door firmly behind me before I changed my mind. I barely slept that night._

_The following morning I didn't know where to look when Tom came into the kitchen looking extremely sheepish._

_“Did I say anything embarrassing last night?”_

_I looked up from my bowl of cereal and despite my lack of sleep and still confused brain, I smirked. I do so love teasing the man after all. But he had a sorrowful hangdog look to him, and was visibly sweating, despite the unseasonably cold morning._

_A wave of pity crashed over me, realising just how easily the shoe could have been on the other foot. Tom has always been extremely solicitous when I was worse for wear, and on so very many occasions. And he only ever teased me a little bit afterwards, and never in a mean way. The least I could do was to repay the gesture._

_“You were your usual drunk self Tom” I shrugged “A tad pissy in the restaurant maybe, but nothing a huge box of Juliette’s favourite chocolates and a few pints with Duncan won’t solve. Especially if you still intend on going to the wedding.”_

_“Shit! I am still invited to the wedding, right?” he mumbled, taking a seat opposite mine as I nodded. He stole my almost full mug of builder’s tea, downing it despite my protests._

_“Hey!” I protested._

_“Darling, I was parched. I think my need is greater than yours right now. Any more of that going?”_

_I gestured towards the pot. “Help yourself.”_

_He pushed himself back upright, and I realised just how pale he looked._

_“Are you up for some breakfast?”_

_“Always” He managed a smile and I relaxed a little more. I did the right thing last night. We were still friends. I pushed the nagging question of why he ended up in my bedroom away._

_“I really am sorry if I was an arse to you last night.”_

_“Water under the bridge Tom” I forced a smile as I get up from the table, discarding my half-eaten cereal “You can make it up to me by buying me a proper breakfast.”_

_Tom set the tea pot back down and smiled back at me._

_“Deal”_

*

Looking back on that sorry night, with the benefit of what I now know, I can’t help but to wonder if he’d been trying to tell me then. We never spoke of why he ended up on my bed that night. I assumed we were both as embarrassed as each other. And though I’m sad for the time we’ve missed out on together, in a way I’m actually glad he didn’t tell me that night. Neither one of us was on our best form and I can only imagine the even bigger mess we would have made of the situation.

_Speaking of which…_

I sigh to myself at the stupidity of the situation I’m in right now. I’m still sat hiding in a public bathroom. The man of my dreams is patiently waiting outside, probably thinking I’ve either fallen down the loo, or legged it! And it’s Tom, the sweetest man I know. Giving myself a stern talking to, I figure I might as well actually pay a visit while I’m in here. Once finished, I head back out to the sinks and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I still can’t fathom what he sees in me. But I force myself not to question it any longer. I have a handsome, intelligent man, whom I absolutely adore, waiting just through those doors. Now is not the time for cold feet.

I wash my hands and unsuccessfully try again to tame my curls, finally giving up. I make my way back across the patio garden to where Tom is sat looking contemplative. His long fingers are parted around the stem of his wine glass, what’s left of the ruby red liquid swirling as he seems to be in a world of his own.

I chew my lip, wondering momentarily whether he's regretting being here with me, but as soon as he spots me, his eyes light up and a huge smile curves across his lips. I smile back at him because I finally realise just how happy he looks, and that his happiness is because he’s here with me.

 

**~To Be Continued~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I hope you enjoy. There's another chapter coming very soon (Yeah, yeah, we've heard that before) <3


	6. “You've got yourself in a right old pickle, darling!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of The First Date™, but really it's just time to hear from Tom as Alice still lingers in the loo!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments on the last chapter! Hope you enjoy a bit of Tom POV<3

 

Dear God in heaven, she is absolutely _killing_ me right now! She looks like she’s been poured into that dress! I lick my lips as I watch her make her way across the courtyard towards the bathroom, her hips swaying hypnotically as she stalks in the heels I love so much. Though she would probably kill me for saying it, I like that they’re not overly high. They stretch her calf muscles deliciously without giving her too much height. Because, though I know she’s hyper-sensitive about it, I absolutely love how petite she is, and particularly, the marked height difference between us. It just feeds into my desire to protect her, and conversely, dominate her. And with the recent discovery that she has, at least some, predilection for submission?

I have to stifle a groan.

Her flustered face when I even mention playing… And the blushing? Christ! Every time she does, it is goes straight to my dick. Not even in my wildest dreams did I ever think she’d be this responsive. I have to admit, she’s hidden her true feeling well over the years - though to be fair, so have I. But it’s almost as if my confession last night has unlocked something buried deep inside of her.

There were a few times over the years when I wondered, of course. But then I would talk myself out of it, telling myself it was just my imagination, and my own repressed feelings playing tricks on me. Even that night when she kissed me, way back in our final year at university. I’d always put it down to her being overwhelmed and simply not thinking straight. She’d had a terrible shock that night, after all. I force myself not to dwell on that though. The anger is never far below the surface when I remember what that piece of shit did to her, even after all these years. But she’s here with me now, and there’s no way I will ever let anyone else touch her.

Ever again.

As I wait for her to return, I take another slow sip of my wine and thank my lucky stars that I _finally_ found the courage to reveal my true feelings for Alice. Leaving her last night had been one of the hardest things that I’ve ever had to do.

_In more ways than one…_

The memory of her lips on mine, the feel of her hesitant fingers trailing over my dick – though sadly only through my jeans. The sound of her breathy moans, and dear God, those magnificent breasts that I have long since secretly coveted being revealed, albeit briefly and still enrobed in the softest cotton, was almost too much to take.

I had been mesmerized by Alice from the first moment we’d met, way back in 1999. She intrigued me. I’m usually pretty good at sussing people out early on, but it took me the longest time to get a handle on her. She was simultaneously incredibly smart and sassy, yet somehow still achingly naive, almost childlike at times in her innocence. I’d had an overwhelming urge to protect her. But she was also so bloody strong-willed that I’d had to learn to be covert in my methods. If I’d have just come straight out and offered to walk her home after a late lecture in the depths of winter, she'd have scoffed at me and gone off on some feminist lecture about how she didn't need a man to look after her. And I knew she was right. Of course she was. But that didn’t mean I didn’t _want_ to look after her. So i’d hung around the library, for hours sometimes, just so that I could 'accidentally' run into her. After a while she seemed to just take it that we'd walk home together. I lived for those precious moments alone with her. And we became firm friends, inseparable even.

I worried about and missed her in equal measure when I was away from university on a job. I had been spotted by an agent who was a big deal in London, not too long after starting at Cambridge, and despite assurances that I would only be booked during the holidays, inevitably every job was during term-time. Of course I wouldn't have turned those chances down for anyone back then. I was just starting out. I wasn't making much money, but they allowed me to practice my craft, and even meet some of my idols.

However, I continued to be utterly enraptured by Alice. I could spend long hours just staring at her, fascinated by every little thing she did, no matter how inconsequential. And I did exactly that in the library most evenings. Her long, sooty black eyelashes hypnotised me whenever they fluttered and brushed against the rosy pink apples of her cheeks as she read. Her long raven locks, replete with those crazy strawberry pink streaks she had back then, would bouncy whenever she grew animated, and I was desperate to run my fingers through the curls and tousle them even more. 

I think back to the women I've dated over the years, that familiar twisting sensation in my gut never having been far away. It had been there for as long as I’d known Alice. A feeling that there was something missing. It would nag away at me, filling me with guilt for stringing these women along, simply because none of them were _her_. And because, deep down, I knew none of them could ever hope to even compare to her.

Because _my_ Shortcake is unique.

And that’s one of the reasons why I have loved her from the first moment we met. I’d almost given up hope of there ever being anything more between us. But it was one night, not all that long ago actually, when I began to wonder if I wasn’t the only one hiding my true feelings…

*

_It was the end of January and the wedding of two of our mutual friends from Cambridge. We were all holed up in a_ [ _manor_ ](https://www.southdownsmanor.co.uk/) _house in the middle of the South Downs National Park for the ceremony, and I hadn’t seen Alice for quite a while because of clashing schedules._

_I’d spent the summer and early autumn preparing for, and then performing nightly in Hamlet, finishing working on Early Man, and was also puppy training Bobby. Alice, meanwhile, had recently been promoted, which had resulted in her being crazy busy overseeing a huge Harry Potter exhibit at the library and then planning two other events. I’d been working long hours, then she’d been working long hours, and we kept missing each other’s calls. We had managed to keep our weekly Netflix night going until the start of December, but then Alice had been forced to cancel twice, and then so had I. Before I knew it, it was January and I was ashamed to say that I hadn’t even had the chance to get her Christmas gift -_ _a bespoke purple leather Smythson diary -_ _to her. She’d left my gift – a limited edition of High-Rise - with Luke of course. So I’d felt like even more of a shit and vowed to apologise profusely when I next saw her._

_Truthfully, though I told myself work schedules were the only reason we hadn’t seen one another,_ _I still wasn't convinced that she'd completely forgiven me for my behaviour at the engagement party five months earlier. I can only remember hazy snapshots of that evening even now, but I had a vague recollection of her arguing with me in the restaurant. Or was I arguing with her? To be fair to Alice, it was almost certainly the latter, particularly given the cantankerous mood I’d arrived in._

_I'd been wound up even before I’d left for the restaurant that night. Having assumed Alice would be bringing her latest man - the sickeningly nice-with-a-capital-N George - I’d desperately wanted to save face. No way was I going to sit through a meal with those two making heart eyes at one another all night, while I sat twiddling my thumbs on my tod. I'd happened to mention to Duncan that I was in search of a date. He knew I cared deeply about Alice. Though I had never outright told him just how infatuated I was, I think he suspected there was more to it than I was letting on. And I think that's why he took pity on me and asked me if I’d escort his niece, Amanda. She was in her final year at university, so there was absolutely no danger of my intentions being misconstrued. Her parents were away God only knows where, and couldn’t make the party. Though Amanda knew a couple of the guests, she too would be going alone as her girlfriend couldn’t get off a shift at the hospital where she worked. But she’d arranged to meet her straight after the meal, so I didn’t have to escort her home. It had seemed like the perfect arrangement, or so Duncan had implied._

_The morning of the engagement party, I'd spoken to Duncan again to confirm what time he wanted me to pick her up. But then he’d dropped the bloody bombshell. Alice had confided in Juliette that she'd split with George a couple of days earlier. Which, of course, meant she'd be going to the party alone. The temptation to cancel my own arrangement with Amanda was almost overwhelming, but I reminded myself I wasn’t that much of a dick. Besides, we both knew exactly where we stood. It was a friendly arrangement, nothing more._

_But the news of Alice’s break-up grated on me all day. Sure, I was happy she was single again. After all, George was the first of her boyfriend’s that I’d been forced to admit I actually liked. He was a genuinely good guy. And from what I’d seen, he treated Alice well. He was kind, stable, and he clearly worshipped her. Which – and I know I’m shitty for saying this – worried me. For the first time, I could actually see their relationship going somewhere. Which of course meant I’d lose Alice forever. So yes, I was relieved to hear they’d called it off._

_But why hadn’t Alice told me herself? We shared everything. Christ, she knew practically every embarrassing detail of my own failed relationships!_

_I’d been so frustrated with the situation, I’d turned to an already open bottle of whiskey. A couple of glasses later, I was regretting agreeing to go to the party at all. I was in no mood to celebrate love when my own love life was such a fucking wasteland. And, as it turned out, by the end of the night, I think it’s fair to say I should have heeded those omens and stayed at home._

_Not that waking up on Alice’s bed the following morning had been a totally unpleasant surprise. But sadly she’d been nowhere in sight. It had just been me, my hand stuffed down my boxers in a comforting grip, and the scent of her on the duvet, pervading my already confused senses. I’d had no idea how I got there, why I was even in her room and not the spare room where I usually crashed, or how the hell I’d ended up half-naked. But the thumping hangover, hard as granite morning glory and the unmade bed in the spare room told me nothing had happened between us._

_We’d never even spoken of it again, but after that there’d been a weird atmosphere brewing for a while. We’d spent the last few months almost skirting around one another and whatever the hell happened that night. Which brings me back to the wedding._

_Alice was uncharacteristically surly when she noticed me. I’d gone alone this time. But as sod’s law would have it, she turned up with some creepy looking idiot who she’d apparently met online! He was a university lecturer or something. More like fucking lecherer if you asked me! I hated him on sight._

_I was an usher and - apparently having pissed off someone important in a former life - of course I found myself escorting the two of them inside._

_Our greetings were clipped and strained, and as they took to their seats, his hand wandered down over her arse and he was already slobbering all over her. She didn’t look at all comfortable at the overt PDA, and I felt my hands balling up into fists. It rubbed me up the wrong way, and I had to force myself to concentrate on the happy couple’s nuptials instead. But after the ceremony and photographs were all finished, I ended up at the pop-up bar belligerently drowning my sorrows until it was time to eat._

_We were seated on different tables for the wedding breakfast – I can only assume Duncan and Juliette had noted the tension between the two of us at their engagement party and decided it was for the best. After all, friends or not, nobody wants their wedding ruined._

_Alice couldn’t see me from her seat. But I had a perfect view of her back. And the hand that kept stroking it as that fool continued to leer over her. Occasionally I’d catch his eye and was furious to note the glint of arrogance as he smiled smugly back at me. I tried hard not to throw daggers at him. Metaphorically **and** physically, I realised, as I forced myself to release my vice-like grip on my knife. I tried not to stare. I tried to ignore them completely, instead engaging in conversation with my table mates as best I could. But the second the meal was over, I legged it back to my room. I needed to calm down, otherwise I was going to do something that I probably wouldn’t regret anywhere near as much as I undoubtedly should. _

_I gave it a little over an hour and a half. I knew, by then, that the party would be in full swing and that I wouldn’t have to pretend to be happy about dancing with someone that wasn’t **her** during the couple’s dances._

_I had intended to slink back down and set myself up at the bar with a good bottle of Scotch._

_That was the plan at least._

_That is, until I saw her and realised just how drunk **she** already was. Alice was stood alone on the periphery of the dancefloor, watching everyone else dancing. She was swaying perilously on her high heels, barely aware that she was even holding a champagne flute as its contents sloshed onto the polished floor below. And yet her date was nowhere in sight._

_My subdued anger returned with a vengeance. Where the fuck was he?! How the hell had he allowed her to get into this state, and why the fuck wasn’t he right there, looking after her?! It was bad enough that she was drunk and alone. All it would take would be for her to stumble, and she’d likely slip on the spilt champagne. And with a glass in her hand. The result didn’t even bear thinking about. I told myself that when I found that son of a bitch I would make him pay for neglecting her._

_I marched over to her, removed the glass from her hand and carefully took her elbow in my other hand, guiding her towards the rear of the room. She needed some fresh air. Fuck it. She needed me to look after her._

_She looked at me in a complete daze, her expressive eyes wide and confused, and my heart skipped a beat. God, I’d missed her._

_Guilt overwhelmed me. I should have made an effort to see her over Christmas. I should have invited her over and exchanged Christmas gifts properly. I **should** have told her how much I loved and worshipped her. _

_I could pretend it was because we were both so busy, but the truth is that I really was still ashamed of my behaviour at the engagement party. I genuinely don’t remember what I said to her, but I must have seriously pissed her off because she was unusually evasive the following morning at breakfast._

_But I cast those problematic memories aside as I manoeuvred her towards the door. And I vowed right then and there to put my stupid feelings to one side once and for all, and get our friendship back on track. If that meant we would only ever be friends, so be it. I missed her like crazy. And I hated seeing her look at me like I was less than nothing to her._

_Outside the function room they were serving tea and coffee at the same pop-up bar I’d graced earlier, so I somehow managed to get her situated on one of the tall bar stools near the patio doors where she could at least get a little fresh air, then ordered us both a strong coffee._

_She sat sullenly staring down at the coffee cup for a while without saying a word. It occurred to me then that she hadn’t in fact uttered a single, solitary word since I’d found her at the side of the dancefloor. I found myself wondering whether she was still ignoring me or if she was, in actual fact, just SO drunk that she could no longer form a coherent sentence._

_We sat there for a while in silence, the tension unbearable, and finally I just had to ask._

_“So, where did lover boy disappear to?” I tried really hard to keep the venom out of my voice, but judging by the look she gave me, I failed miserably._

_“Had to leave. Family emergency.” She hiccupped as she gestured vaguely. So she **could** speak then. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that realisation but I pressed on regardless._

_“But you stayed.” It wasn’t a question._

_“I stayed.”_

_“And got wasted.” Another statement._

_“Was already drunk.” She slurred._

_She glared at me then, eyebrow cocked, and challenging me to say something disapproving. I could feel it. See the defiance in her eyes. I immediately saw the game she was trying to play. It was as if she was daring me to chastise her, just so she could argue with me. She obviously remembered how I always used to be her chaperone when we went out, and now she was using that against me, probably to provoke a reaction._

_Well at least I was one step ahead of her in that regard. I already blamed myself. In fact I’d been kicking myself ever since the moment I’d let her slip through my fingers all those years ago when she’d tried to kiss me. There was nothing she could say that would make me feel any shittier about **that** particular decision than I already did._

_Alice continued to glare at me, but when the apparently expected reproachful diatribe did not materialise from my lips, I had to watch as her shoulders visibly drooped in defeat, and she looked back down morosely at her cup of coffee._

_I didn’t know what was worse. Seeing her angry with me, or seeing her think I didn’t even care. We sat in silence for a while, me taking the occasional sip of coffee, Alice resolutely ignoring hers._

_“Are you going to drink that?” I finally asked, doing my best to keep my voice soft and unthreatening. I just wanted everything to go back to the way it was before I made a fool of myself at that bloody engagement party. And before I’d avoided her again._

_But Alice merely shook her head._

_I sighed heavily and rose from my stool, clearing away my own empty cup and Alice’s barely touched one. When I returned to the bar she was half slumped, her head leaning heavily on her arms._

_“I'm never going to get married!” She whispered miserably, catching me completely off guard._

_I didn’t immediately know what to say to that. I couldn’t work out whether she meant she had no desire to marry, or if she thought no-one would ever care enough about her to want her to be their wife. The idea of it being the latter sent a sharp surge of pain direct to my heart. How could she possibly be so self-assured in almost every other area of her life, yet so oblivious to the spell she had cast on me, and no doubt, countless others?_

_“Shh, Shortcake. Any man would be lucky to have you as his partner in life.” I murmured, forcing down the lump in my throat at the certainty that it would never be me._

_She said nothing to that, merely glancing up sorrowfully at me through her mane of dishevelled curls, before turning to the barman._

_“¡Dos tequilas, por favor!”_

_Christ! Where the hell did she think she was, fucking Mexico? I groaned internally and held my hand up to the bartender, halting him in his tracks._

_“No more for the lady, please.”_

_“Ugh… Tom. Always Tom - fucking look but don't touch – Hiddleston marching in to save the day!” she muttered belligerently under her breath, but I’d heard her. I was about to ask her what the hell she meant by that when she started to turn on her stool towards me. I swallowed a groan as the fitted skirt of her claret silk cocktail dress started to ride up her thighs with the movement, but she began to wobble precariously and I forgot everything else as I instinctively reached out for her, my hand momentarily grazing her arse as I went to steady the stool._

_I immediately pulled back as if I’d been burned, heat soaring through my fingertips at the elicit touch. But as always, she seemed totally oblivious to my torment._

_“Why do they make bar stools so fucking high? We’re not all giraffes like **some** people!” she hissed as she attempted to right herself, her legs dangling helplessly some distance from the floor._

_“Come on. Let's get you back to your room.” I sighed. The sooner I got her tucked up safely in her own bed, the sooner I could breathe properly again._

_“Why? The night’s still young, even If I’m not anymore.” She grumbled, completely ignoring – or oblivious to - the desperation in my voice._

_“Be that as it may, my dear Shortcake, you are sozzled.” I instead tried the light-hearted approach. I may love this woman, but by God I knew how stubborn she could be, especially if she thought I was trying to boss her around._

_“I am not!” she slurred indignantly as she prodded my chest with a delicate finger “I could drink you under the table any day of the week Hiddleston!”_

_“Right...” I smirked, despite my growing irritation. “But I still think it’s time for bed” I prompted again._

_“But… I don't need to go to bed. Unless you're asking?” Her voice was petulant, and she tried to flutter her eyelashes at me, the result somewhere between crazed and seductive, and I honestly thought I might have a stroke! What the fuck had I done to deserve this level of torment?_

_“Alice...” I tried to pull myself together, using my most formal tone “You are going to be mortified in the morning.”_

_“What? Am I **that**  repulsive to you? Forget it then!” She shouted and attempted to storm off._

_What Alice hadn’t counted on, of course, was the fact she was still dangling from a bar stool. So the result was that she kind of slid off her stool, then lurched forward as her legs buckled underneath her. It seemed she’d also forgotten about the 5-inch heels on her feet._

_“Jesus, Alice!” I made a grab for her, not even daring to think about where, or what I was grasping as my only concern was trying to stop her face-planting the floor._

_“Fuck!” She hissed as she crumpled into an undignified heap against my chest._

_Thankfully my reflexes are pretty good, so I was able to pull my hands away quickly from her waist and hip, but it did mean I had to endure several seconds of Alice pressed right up against me. At one point I swear I could feel her hand creeping over my arse but then it disappeared just as quickly, and I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved, disappointed or in the middle of the most fucked-up dream I’d ever had. But her cheek remained pressed against my shirt, and I could feel the warmth radiating through to my chest._

_“Soz…” She finally muttered, pushing herself back in embarrassment and stumbling away towards the function room._

_My patience had finally run out and I snapped. “For God sake! Alice come back here right this minute!”_

_“Shut up! You're not my dad and you’re definitely not my boyfriend! You don't get to tell me what to do.” Her hands were gesticulating wildly, but it was her swaying hips my eyes were trained on._

_I raked my palm wearily through my hair. Honestly, could this day get any worse?_

_As it turned out, it could._

_And it did._

_The God’s above had apparently heard me and stepped the nightmare up a notch._

_“You might look fucking hot while you stand there, brooding in your…” she looked me up and down and rolled her eyes “skin-tight bloody tux, Hiddleston, but you're not the boss of me!” She yelled this, of course, and a couple of guests milling around near the doors turned to stare, their eyes darting between the pair of us. I shook my head apologetically and marched over to her, trying to quieten her down._

_“Shortcake, shh…” I tried to pacify her, resting my hands gently on her shoulders, and she dropped her clenched hands to her side with a sigh. I couldn’t help the smile ghosting over my face at her words, but inside I was still so shocked at her outburst. Confident that her latest rant finally seemed to be over, I whispered “Did you really just tell me that I'm 'hot'?”_

_My confidence was short-lived however as her temper flared once more and she started yelling at me again._

_“Oh shut it Hiddleston! Enough with the false modesty… You know you’re the hottest man here. You're the hottest man in pretty much any room! I mean, just… well, just look at you!”_

_“Alice… Shh. People are staring. It’s embarrassing.” I muttered through gritted teeth, but I looked down at myself, not seeing whatever the hell she was referring to._

_Listen, I’m happy with myself, don’t get me wrong. I make the best of what I’ve got and I’m not oblivious to my army of fans, or what they say about me. But, with the greatest of respect to them, that’s fantasy. They haven’t seen me at my worst, whereas Alice has. I’ve also been around enough of the men she’s dated over the years to know I’m not like them. I’ll never be built like them, and that’s absolutely fine with me. But Alice’s words threw me for a loop._

_Was she just trying to embarrass me?_

_Or could she...?_

_Nope. Don’t be daft. She was just drunk, I told myself. She knew how uncomfortable I got with this kind of talk, so she was using it to her advantage in order to deflect from whatever the hell was really going on with her, and probably whatever happened earlier with the latest dickhead in her life._

_I turned, searching for the quickest, most discreet route to get her upstairs to her room, and that’s when I heard her whisper, “Fuck me! That ass...”_

_“Oh for Christ sake Alice! That's quite enough!” I could feel my face burning then._

_“Oh believe me…” She muttered in an ominous tone “I haven’t even gotten started!”_

_I was angry now. She was clearly just teasing me._

_“Alice. Stop this right now, or you and I are going to fall out. The party’s over. It’s time for bed.” I hissed._

_My tone finally seemed to have an effect and she stopped talking. Taking advantage of this, I held out my hand and gestured for her to take it. She glared at me, initially refusing to take me up on my offer - that is until she almost fell over again, at which time she finally acquiesced sullenly. I just shook my head and anchored myself to her as best I could, guiding her up the stairs to where all of the guest rooms were situated._

_As we walked I mentally cursed myself again for allowing her to get into this state in the first place. If she were mine I would have totally failed her this evening, and that only made it clear that I wasn't worthy of her yet. My desire to leave her alone had gotten in the way of her safety. It was a lesson hard learned, but it would prove to be one I never intended to forget again._

_Reluctantly she allowed me to retrieve her key card from her clutch, her own efforts less than successful. I escorted her over towards the bed, intending to seat her, but her petite frame was surprisingly wilful as it tugged me down along with her._

_I had to react quickly so as not to crush her._

_And I was furious._

_What was rather more shameful is that I was also beside myself with the illicit thrill of my body on top of hers._

_I’d spent years avoiding this exact situation. So many of them that I could barely count them. Our bodies were pressed up against one another, a low moan escaping her parted lips as her little hands pawed drunkenly at me._

_Dear God. I only had so much resolve. My body immediately betrayed me and I pulled away sharply, pushing myself back upright and turning my back to her so that I could regain at least a modicum of composure._

_“Tom...” she whined helplessly behind me, several moments later._

_My baser instincts kicked in then. My need to look after her. To cosset my love._

_As I turned though, I very quickly cursed that aforementioned need._

_“Alice what the f-”_

_“I'm stuck!” She whined again. Despite the ludicrous position she'd somehow managed to manoeuvre herself into, the first thing I noticed were her wet cheeks._

_She was crying._

_My heart throbbed with pain to see her in such discomfort that it would elicit tears._

_“Shh... Shortcake it's okay. I'm here.” I soothed as I gathered every ounce of my willpower and climbed back onto that huge bed that seemed only to make her look even smaller and more vulnerable as she tugged futilely at the bra strap inexplicably wrapped tightly around her wrist._

_“Here...” I took her delicate, shaking hand in mine, telling myself I wasn't touching one of her most intimate garments, a garment still warm from the heat of her body._

_My eyes feasted on the contrast between her creamy pale skin and the crimson strap, picturing what it would look like replaced with one of my silk ties. Or bound in leather._

_But I snapped out of it sharpish as I felt another familiar stirring in my trousers. Get it together man! Stop torturing yourself._

_Even if - and it was still a hugely doubtful ‘if’ at that time - she truly wanted you, for all your flaws, taking advantage of a drunken woman would never be one of them._

_Even if it was Alice._

_Especially_ _if it was Alice._

_So I endeavoured instead to switch on my best friend mode, thus putting any thoughts about what she might have looked like enrobed in the exquisite crimson satin of the lingerie I was currently releasing from her wrist. And I absolutely did not wonder whether she wore the same sensuous confection down below._

_Not even for a second…_

_“You've got yourself in a right old pickle, darling!” I allowed myself a faint chuckle as I made quick work of untangling the strap, rubbing her reddened wrist instinctively as my other hand gently brushed away the drying tears from her velvet soft cheeks._

_“I dunno what happened...” she slurred, reminding me just how intoxicated she still was. Though she’d seemed pretty coherent as she’d yelled at me outside the function room, whatever bravado she’d possessed then seemed to have evaporated and she was now back to drunk and confused Alice._

_“It looks like you started to undress in the wrong order.” I sighed. A surprisingly relieved sigh I might add, realising just how much worse it could have been had she done it in the **right**  order. _

_“Needed to get my bra off.” She attempted to reason “It was digging right in. It's that time of the month so my boobs are extra big and swollen and it was a tight squeeze.”_

_Oh for fuck sake!_

_I gulped and forced myself to look anywhere but down at where she was again gesturing. I couldn’t possible take advantage of her misery. Even if the first thing I’d imagined at her words was just how magnificent they would look naked. Naked and swollen – but not because it was that time of the month, rather because she was pregnant. With our child, of course. Oh God, and there were all of the fun ways we would have tried getting pregnant now flicking through my depraved mind._

_Christ, my thoughts were reprehensible._

_“You boys have it **so** easy.” She groaned, breaking through the delicious yet completely inappropriate visuals in my mind._

_‘Yeah. We have it so easy. We never, ever have to deal with big, swollen parts of our anatomy squeezed into confined spaces.’ I muttered sarcastically under my breath, tugging at my belt as I tried to free up some much-needed space in my trousers._

_Alice might have had a point about this tux. It was rather snug._

_I'm not a complete masochist though, so I reluctantly forced the extremely unhelpful image of a naked, pregnant Alice out of my head immediately. I needed to focus._

_My girl needed me._

_I snapped once more into caregiving mode. “Okay, first things first. Let's free you completely of that pesky garment…” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word 'bra', I only had so much self-control. “Are you going to be okay getting yourself out of the rest of it?”_

**_Please say yes..._ **

**_Dear God, please say yes!_ **

_“Mmm hmm...” she nodded as she began to tug at the bra strap on the other shoulder. It took one, two, three unsuccessful attempts. But then, on the fourth try she magically produced the entire garment from the armhole of the fitted bodice of her dress, with a satisfied hiss of “Finally!”_

_Then I was stuck, mesmerized by the wispy crimson satin and lace bra in all its glory as it dangled from her hand triumphantly._

_As if that wasn’t bad enough – and believe me, the realisation of just how flimsy and sheer that garment truly was, really was quite overwhelming - she then launched it at me! I managed to grab it as it sailed through the air, praying this was as far as Alice’s impromptu striptease was going to go._

_“Where are your PJ's love?” I tried to distract her._

_“I didn't bring any. I don’t like sleeping in anything and I knew I would be going straight to bed after the party.”_

_She._

_Was._

_Going._

_To._

_Fucking._

_Kill._

_Me!_

_I couldn’t help it. A low groan escaped my lips._

_“Okay. Well it's different when you're not at home” I chided, “What if there was a fire in the building, or some other emergency?” The thought of her exposing herself unknowingly infuriated me “You need to wear something.”_

_“Jeez Grandad!” She rolled her eyes._

_Ugh. I'd forgotten how bratty she got when she was pissed. The palms of my hands itched at the realisation._

_“I don't have anything else with me except the jeans and jumper I came in. I was just going to wear them home as well.” She was whining again._

_“I'll get you one of my t shirts” I hurriedly decided. I had to get out of there. I needed a moment of air. “Will you be okay while I nip down the hall to get it?”_

_Please say yes._

_A low grunt affirmed it enough for me and I dashed off at lightning speed. As much as I was desperate to get away from her, I didn't want to leave her alone for too long in that state._

_When I returned though, she was bent over the end of the bed, her head buried inside of the duvet cover, apparently rearranging it in some peculiar manner. I should have stayed away longer, I groaned._

_I dragged a sweaty palm down over my face as I watched her arse wiggle enticingly. That sweaty palm was once again itching._

_“Alice. What the hell are you doing now?” I rubbed my temples in growing exasperation “If you were mine...”_

_But she wasn’t, was she? And that was the biggest problem at that moment._

_I didn’t get a say._

_And it was slowly killing me. Every. Fucking. Day._

_I realised then that she'd stopped what she was doing, and was frozen on the spot._

_She'd managed to pull herself out of the duvet, and was now staring at me. Her hair was even more dishevelled than usual. Jesus, it looked like she’d been fucked six ways from Sunday. It looked amazing._

_Her eyes were wild and she was licking her damson stained lips._

_The simple action went straight to my cock again. I knew I needed to look away. I knew I should walk right back out of that bedroom before one of us did something really, **really**  stupid. _

_But I couldn't even do that._

_She stumbled around the bed, bending over again - arse tauntingly in the air as she swayed - fumbling about in her overnight bag. Eventually she righted herself with a bit of a wobble and waved a wet wipe triumphantly in the air._

_It took every ounce of my reserve not to immediately go to her and hold her upright, as she was clearly still struggling with the effects of alcohol, and apparently refused to even take those damn shoes off, but the truth was I no longer trusted myself anywhere near her._

_But then she shocked me._

_“I'm **not**  yours Tom!” she spat venomously. Okay I knew that. But still, hearing it from her own lip’s hurt like a bitch._

_“And I'm doing this...” she started wiping down the bedside table, her shaking hand gripping the baby wipe for dear life “because if I don't do this, I'm scared I'll do something that we'll both end up regretting.”_

_My eyebrows shot up and my curiosity was piqued._

_What the hell did she mean by that?! Were we thinking the same thing?_

_That was impossible, surely? Alice didn’t like me like that. She was so mortified by that almost-kiss she gave me all those years ago that she legged it seconds afterwards and disappeared for years. I couldn’t go through losing her again. I looked down at my feet as a depressing thought crossed my mind._

_What if she just wanted a one-night thing? A drunken frolic, never ever to be spoken of again. She knew I was single again._

_But she wasn’t, I reminded myself. She was with **him** now. The lecherer._

_Anger bubbled up inside my chest._

_“Alice...” I warned, looking up, only to be met with the top of her head. How did she get so close to me without me realising?_

_I suddenly felt like she was a huntress and I was her prey._

_“Here's the problem.”_

_“Problem?” I'd asked warily._

_“Yeah. Problem…” she lingered over the word, raising a hand and pressing it against my chest with what I was almost certain was a moan. I say I was almost certain, by the way, merely because my brain was beginning to short-circuit at this point. Alice was touching me again, her delicate fingers pressing against my hot and flustered chest in a manner that could only be described as predatory. I could feel a distinct throbbing in my trousers again and bit down hard on my lip. I needed to be strong, but damn it if I wasn’t sorely tempted._

_“From where I’m standing, it’s a pretty fucking huge problem” Her words startled me out of my musings, bringing me back to the moment and I immediately looked down towards my crotch, praying she hadn’t seen the visible manifestation of what she was doing to me. But her eyes were staring resolutely at my chest, and I was dismayed to see tears in them, as she whispered “You're just too damn perfect, Hiddleston.”_

_“I'm really not perfect, Alice.” I’d muttered instinctively, my eyes wandering where they had absolutely no business wandering as she leant her head back and sighed. From my lofty vantage point I had a perfect view of her incredible cleavage, and knowing it now lay without further restraint just underneath the silky fabric of her dress was not helping the situation in my trousers one single bit. I did my best not to focus on the peaked outline of her nipples, rock hard and distractingly inviting._

_“You deserve someone kind. Someone beautiful and talented. Someone fun. But also someone normal. Someone who will cherish being with you...” she rambled._

_“I... I really don’t know what to say to that.” I sighed, knowing full well what I wanted to say to her. That I wanted only **her** , loved only **her** , needed only **her**. And that she was each and every one of those things she’d just listed, and so much more. Luckily for both of us, I wasn't offered the opportunity to comment further as she continued rambling on. _

_“But of course you always attract the bold and beautiful women. The women with status.” She sighed heavily, “And always the fucking tall ones.”_

_I thought I detected a hint of jealousy for a moment, and it was confirmed when she continued._

_“Why do these women get all those extra inches of height as well as all the other good stuff?” She grumbled, and I sagged, realising - as ever - she was only really jealous of their bloody height. Or so it seemed, at least._

_She staggered back a step, swaying again as she opened her mouth as if to say something further, but immediately clamped it back tightly shut with a pained whimper. I noticed several beads of sweat were forming on her forehead, and her usually pale cheeks were starting to develop a worrisome tinge of green._

_“Fuck.... fuck... I think...”_

_Before either one of us could react, she heaved all over my brand-new patent dress shoes. They went in the bin and Alice spent the rest of the evening on the bathroom floor. I know, because I never left her side._

_And in those quiet, contemplative hours before I was finally able to bundle her up into bed - my hastily retrieved T shirt long-since abandoned on the bedside table as she fell into a restless sleep still clad in her cocktail dress - I knew that I’d had enough of pretending anymore. She was my world and I wasn’t going to rest until she knew the truth of what she meant to me._

_However long it took._

*

I’d been biding my time ever since that night six months ago, and when I realised last night that _finally_ we were both single at the exact same time, and in the same place for the foreseeable future, I just knew I had to go for it.

I hadn’t expected it to go anywhere near as well as it eventually did though. I’d had to take a cold shower the minute I’d set foot back home last night - she really was _that_ potent - and immediately after, I’d booked a table at the restaurant. Luckily the owner knows me well so it wasn’t too difficult to get a reservation at such short notice. I’d also asked him to put two very specific dishes on the dessert menu.

And then I’d made the mistake of ringing her.

I could have simply sent her text with the details, but apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment. The gentlemanly part of me reasoned that it was bad form to text your date simply expecting them to turn up alone. And, even though we’d known each other for almost twenty years and I _knew_ Alice wouldn’t have thought twice about receiving a text with the details – even under these brand-new circumstances – I still felt compelled to speak to her in person and hear her voice one final time before I went to bed.

I could hear the anxiety in her voice the second she answered. I did everything in my power to reassure her that I hadn’t in any way changed my mind, without explicitly outlining what I had _really_ wanted to be doing to her at that moment. I wanted to save that for when we were together again, because I wanted to observe every single one of her reactions: relive the way her eyes dilated when I told her all the things I’d thought about doing to her at night; feast on the sight of her parted lips; feel the way her pulse quickened at my touch; watch the flutter of it under the delicate skin below the earlobe that I so desperately wanted to nibble at; hear the needy whimpers directly in my ear, and not merely through the telephone.

In short, I wanted _her_. Entirely. A telephone call would never be enough.

So I’d had to reign myself in, despite her enticements, because knowingly or unknowingly, she was always able to get under my skin with mere words.

I toy with my wine glass, desperate now for her return, the memories of that night sending a fresh flow of blood through certain parts of my anatomy. And then I catch a flash of red from across the restaurant and put any other thought of what _didn’t_ happen out of my mind as I watch her approach. She’s here now, with me, and there’s absolutely no way I am ever letting her go again.

 

**~To Be Continued~**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me please! I swear the good stuff is coming very, very soon...

**Author's Note:**

> *Waves* Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> To my long-suffering readers, I promise I haven't given up on my other stories. This nonsense has just been buzzing around in my head ever since April, and I needed to get it out of my system! As always comments and constructive criticism are welcome <3
> 
> *Full Disclosure: I totally stole Alice's nickname from The Hating Game because I love that book and Alice is a short-arse too (I really want Tom and Amelia Clarke to make it into a movie if i'm honest), but that's where the similarities end. There are no strawberries in this story! 
> 
> Unless they somehow end up watching Wimbledon... Which tbh, knowing the way my brain works might end up a possibility *shrugs*


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